


Until I Get My Teeth In You

by Narcotic_Dollie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: AKA, Age Difference, Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bucky Barnes Trigger Words, Bucky eats his dessert in bed, But never any Non-Consensual sexy times so don't worry about that, But only in one flashback and Clint is 18+, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Dubious Science, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Forced Submission, Hand Feeding, Kneeling, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Clint Barton, Pack Bonding, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Pavlov's dogs, Recovery, Rimming, Savior to First Kiss to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Showering at Gunpoint, Slow Burn, The Winter Soldier is Clint's First Kiss, The couple that dismembers a corpse together, These next two tags pertain to an undercover mission and don't occur outside of it:, Trauma, Yes I really did that, You're Welcome, darkish world, fight me, non-consensual biting, stays together, straight up murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2020-09-07 08:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20306560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narcotic_Dollie/pseuds/Narcotic_Dollie
Summary: Clint's breath catches as Bucky's blue grey eyes slide past Natasha to burn a hole in him. "Yes ma'am," he tells her, but he doesn't take his eyes off Clint. "No biting.""Breathe," Bruce reminds him. "You've got to breathe, Clint."Clint tries and for a moment he thinks his lungs have failed him, but then he manages a stuttered inhale through his nose and everything is fine, it's fine.In.Out.In.Out.It's a double edged sword. Every breath is tainted with nitroglycerin.----Or the one where Clint Barton has never met Bucky Barnes before in his life, and if he says it enough maybe everyone else will believe him.





	1. The Denning

**Author's Note:**

> I messed with the A/B/O trope. There isn't such a thing as a soul bond in this 'verse and the biting is more a submission thing. All the other stuff gets explained in story, I just wanted to put that out there right at the start so no one gets confused.
> 
> Thank you to the fantastic [dr_girlfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend) for making this gorgeous photoset. Go check them out on [tumblr](https://drgrlfriend.tumblr.com/) and see what else they're up to!
> 
> _ _

_He’s five years old and sitting at the little table in their kitchen when he asks her, "Mama, what does being an omega mean?"_

_ She pauses, lips pursed as she stares out the window over the sink, watching where Barney is playing cops and robbers with Billy Hollingsworth by the barn. "What makes you ask that, pumpkin?" She says finally, turning away from doing the washing up to give him one of her sweet half smiles. _

_ "No reason," he fibs, shy all of a sudden. Edith waits him out, drying her hands on her apron front and not saying much of anything at all. He glances at her, eyes lingering on the top of her turtleneck. There are angry red teeth marks peeking over the edges. "Well, you're an omega," Clint starts and his mama smiles encouragingly. "And Barney's an omega," he keeps going, not quite as nervous any longer. "So I think that's what I'm gonna be too, y'know?"_

_ Edith stays quiet, tapping her chin absentmindedly while she tries to work something out. "Could be," she concedes, sitting next to him and smoothing a stray bit of hair from his forehead. “Or you could be an alpha, like your daddy.” _

_ Clint scrunches his nose and pulls a sour face. He doesn’t want to be anything like his daddy._

_ Edith laughs but it sounds sad. “Oh, Clint.” She pulls him into a hug and they’re the best, because they feel soft and safe, like being all wrapped up in a sunbeam. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” She presses a kiss into his hair. “Or it can mean everything,” she keeps going, giving him another squeeze. “It doesn’t have to mean anything that you don’t want it to mean, Clint.”_

_ Clint’s not sure that makes a lick of sense, but then she’s kissing him again and asking what kind of cake he wants for his birthday next Wednesday, so he forgets to ask any more questions. _

*

_She dies that Sunday, so she never does get around to making him that birthday cake. Daddy lives and ain't that just his luck?_

_ *_

"Jesus Christ, Nat!" Clint yelps, clutching the towel tighter around his waist in an attempt to suppress a flinch. He fails. "Warn a guy before you materialize from the abyss, yeah?" Natasha opens her mouth to respond but Clint puts up a hand to stop her, gestures vaguely at the side of his head. "Gimme a sec, let me get my ears in."

She nods, green eyes tracking him as he crosses to the nightstand to scoop up his hearing aids and tuck them into his ears. It takes a moment of fumbling to turn them on since his fingers are slick from the shower, but eventually he gets everything back online. "Alright," Clint says, collapsing onto the bed next to Natasha. "What's the problem?" He can tell something's wrong by the way she's got her eyebrows crinckled. He reaches to smooth out the line between them.

"Cut it out," she grumbles, batting his hand away. "We've got a situation." There's an energy about her that is so uncharacteristic Clint's getting nervous by proxy. "I think James may have gone feral."

"What makes you say that?"

"He seems to have...commandeered Bruce."

"Commandeered," Clint repeats, slow and careful. His eyebrows begin their ascent. "Meaning...?"

Natasha purses her lips. "Meaning that Bruce dropped his coffee cup, cut his finger, and the next thing I know James is scooping him up and sprinting to the elevator."

"Holy shit," Clint says before saying again with more gusto, _ "Holy shit!". _He bolts to yank open his dresser, rifling through it until he manages to liberate a pair of boxers. "Why wouldn't you lead with that? Is it a code green? Shit, shit, _ shit._" His towel gives up the ghost, falling away before Clint can snap his skivvies into place.

It's a testament to the seriousness of the situation that Natasha doesn't make a single quip about his spectacular tan lines.

"No code green." Natasha picks at the covers, somehow still looking put together even among his unmade bed sheets. "I had Friday pull the feed for James's room and everything looks under control. Tony even patched through some meditation audio for Bruce." The corner of her mouth ticks up. "He seems to be managing. For now."

Clint blows out an exhale, shoulders relaxing as he tugs on a pair of sweatpants. "Good. That's good, right? Do we have a plan?"

"That's what I came to get you for," Natasha says. "We're going to have a meeting in ten minutes. Living room," she pauses, reaching to squeeze Clint's arm. "Don't be late." 

Clint watches her leave before scrubbing his hands over his face. He really, _ really _doesn't want to deal with this, but as far as he can tell there's no way to weasel out of it. Plus he likes Bruce, knows that he wouldn't hesitate to help Clint if the tables were turned.

So he uncovers his face, squares his shoulders, and pulls on an old t-shirt. Reminds himself that there's nothing to be afraid of. Tries to walk out the door not feeling like he's headed to the gallows.

It only sort of works.

*

"Well I hope you're both settled in for the long haul because Frozone really screwed the pooch on this one." Tony looks down right manic as he paces the room, the bags under his eyes puffy and bruised violet. Clint hopes Pepper gets back from California soon so she can make him get some sleep. "Friday, put the feed up for us."

"Right away, boss," Friday responds, the AI's voice silvery and lilting all at once. The screen flashes and the interior of an apartment comes up in crisp HD. Bucky looks just as deranged as Tony does, stalking back and forth in front of his bed while Bruce sits in the middle of it, stock-still with his eyes screwed shut.

"Okay, now do me a favor and patch me through."

"Of course, boss."

"Hey Jolly Green Giant, how're you holding up in there?" Bucky's head snaps up at the sound of Tony's voice coming through the speakers. "Tall, Dark, and Gruesome giving you any trouble?"

"I'm fine, Tony." Bruce doesn't open his eyes. "You should probably stop talking though. You're antagonizing him."

As if to prove the point Bucky snarls, baring his teeth at the spot in the ceiling where the speakers are located.

"Jeez, no need to get hostile." Bucky's scowl deepens. "Alright Banner, let us know if anything changes or you start feeling green around the gills." 

Bruce flashes the 'O.K' symbol from where one of his hands is planted on his knees. Tony has Friday cut their audio and the soothing sounds of birds and ocean waves filter back into the apartment Bucky and Steve share. The two occupants visibly relax.

"Right, so I say we just suit up and storm the place," Tony offers, like it's a valid solution. "If Banner goes green it's no big deal. I don't mind a little property damage. It might be nice, it'd give me a reason to redecorate."

"Tony," and honestly, he can't believe he's the voice of reason here. "We’re not doing that."

“Get with the program, Barton. Out with the old and in with the new.” Tony gives him a sidelong look. “Are you just saying that because you’re afraid Snowflake is gonna maul you again? Because if that’s the case I’ve gotta say, you’re being a real pussy.”

“Sexist,” Natasha says, arms crossed. “My pussy is very offended."

Clint sticks his tongue out. 

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“What? No, that’s not what I meant!” Tony runs both his hands through his hair, disheveling it further. “I’m just saying that happened, what, five months ago? It’s all water under the bridge at this point. He didn’t even break the skin.”

"It's not because he bit me." Well, it's not the only reason. "I just don't think we need to risk Bruce Hulking out or millions in property damage. I mean, look at them." Clint gestures at the screen. "They seem to be getting along fine to me. What's the harm in leaving it until Steve and Sam get back?"

Bucky is sitting next to Bruce, holding the finger Clint assumes got cut and twisting to inspect it. Bruce is saying something that looks like, _ "It's okay, Bucky," _ but could just as easily be, " _ Let's parlay, Ducky." _Bucky doesn't look convinced and pushes at Bruce's shoulders, manhandling him until he has him horizontal.

Natasha's hands twitch, hungry for a blade.

But Bucky doesn't do anything sinister at all, simply gathers the blankets and tucks them around Bruce until only his eyes are visible. Bucky presses his lips together in what Clint figures is a shushing noise and pets a hand over Bruce's neck before going over to the door and rechecking the locks.

Their relief is palpable.

"I'm not leaving him in there," Natasha says. "And we're not charging in guns blazing."

Tony throws his hands up. "Then what's the plan here, red? Because in case you hadn't noticed, we're running out of options."

"I think--," She hesitates, jaw flexing. "That we should make a den."

The room is quiet. Tony strokes his beard. Clint wrinkles his nose at the very notion of denning up with an alpha he doesn't trust, let alone one that's prone to biting unprovoked.

"It wasn't James that bit you," Natasha tells him, like she can read his mind. "It was the Winter Soldier. That's not who's in there worrying over Bruce like a mother hen."

Clint glances at the screen just in time to see Bucky dump an armload of towels onto the bed and start arranging them over Bruce as well. The doctor is slowly being buried alive under a mountain of linens.

"Hydra never gave him time to get used to what they'd done to him." Her eyes are on the screen now too. Natasha knows more than anyone what it's like to have your second gender changed against your will. The Red Room did the same to her when they made her omega. "They made him as frightening as possible and then after every mission shoved him back in cryo before he had time to process anything."

Tony groans, staring up at the ceiling tiles. "We're really doing this, aren't we? Fuck, I haven't made a den since college." 

"I haven't made one since the circus," Clint says, so the guy doesn't feel bad.

"Let the record show that this was not my idea." Tony rolls his shoulders before turning his head one way, then the next until his neck pops, like he's gearing up for a brawl instead of a glorified blanket fort. "You gonna be den mother then?"

Natasha smirks. "Seems like I have the most experience. Plus somebody's got to keep you boys in line."

*

“I don’t know what I expected from a den with you as mother,” Tony says as they stand back and survey the fruits of their labor. “But this wasn’t it.”

They’d relocated because Natasha insisted the closer quarters of her room would be more soothing than the open spaces of the living room. Tony and Clint brought the linens off their beds to add more of that homey, sleep mussed omega smell and they'd strung them up using a length of rope Natasha pulled from her nightstand (_ 'Kinky,' _ and _ 'Good for Bruce,' _ Clint thought simultaneously). It's dark out now, the room only illuminated by the glow of the bedside lamp. 

It's all horribly domestic. Clint kind of loves it.

"Next time I'll string it up with garrote wire," Natasha teases, but her tone makes it hard to tell. "Now strip."

They both blink, at a loss for words. It's impressive, really.

"Come again?" Tony asks, once the ability for speech has returned.

"You heard me. We're trying to overwhelm his urge to protect Bruce with this whole sweet, harmless omega act. The best way to do that is by looking defenseless." She shoots them both a pointed look. "So like I said, strip."

"This is ridiculous," Tony grumbles, like he's not the patron saint of absurdity. He complies though, reaching behind his head to pull off his t-shirt. "This is going to look like something straight out of an, _ 'Omega Play,' _ magazine."

"Nah." Clint's already out of his shirt and working on his sweatpants. Why'd he bother getting dressed at all? "It'd be in, _ 'A/B/O Arthouse,' '_cause we're classy like that."

Once they're down to their underwear Nat points at Clint, then Tony before bringing her hands together and lacing her fingers. When they don't immediately move she gives them a look like she's dealing with preschoolers. "Do I have to spell everything out for you? Scent each other."

"Do we have to?" Clint asks. "It's not like I can get my smell on him."

"Bring it in here, Barton," Tony says, holding his arms out. "Smell or no smell, it'll get you in the right head-space."

That's what he's afraid of, which Natasha must see because she's telling him a heartbeat later, "I won't let him do anything, Clint. Trust me."

"Alright," Clint relents, because he's never been good at denying Natasha anything. If she says she'll keep him safe then, well, that's that. He loops his arms around Tony and presses his nose to his neck. He has a woodsy pine and clover smell that Clint has always thought was hilarious, given how he's not a rugged, outdoorsy person at all. Tony hums and glides his hands over Clint's back, letting him nose around all he likes.

Slowly Clint's eyes droop and the tension leeches from his body. He goes boneless, hands petting clumsily over Tony's sides in an attempt to return the favor. It won't work, Clint doesn't smell like anything so he won't trigger those _ safewarmhome _ feelings, but it seems like the polite thing to do.

Tony chuckles. "You know, Merida, you're kind of cute when you're all doped up on nesting hormones."

"Shud'up," Clint slurs, but he thinks it missed the mark because Tony laughs. He gives Clint a final squeeze before he lets go so Natasha can take her turn.

"Tasha," he says, warm and affectionate. Clint gathers her up and burries his nose in her hair. She smells incredible, better than anyone he's ever met, and Clint's not sure if it's because the Red Room biologically engineered her that way or because he loves her so much. Regardless, Natasha smells like cedar chests and kept promises and all it takes is a couple whiffs along with a squeeze to the back of his neck for everything else to fall away. 

"Perfect," she whispers and it makes his chest ache. "That's perfect, Clint," Natasha says again, pulling away to cup his cheek. "You with me?" 

"Mmhm," he hums, leaning into the touch.

"Good." She traces his cheekbone, giving him an impossibly fond look. "Now I want you to get into the den. All the way to the back, against the headboard."

"Yes ma'am," Clint answers cheekily. Natasha gives his neck one last squeeze before he crawls into bed. 

Once he's situated, Clint turns his attention back to where Tony and Natasha are speaking softly, their arms wound around each other. Tony's eyes glaze over too, undoubtedly hit by the same pheromone high, before he clambers in after Clint.

Tony presses close until they're side by side with no space between them and rests his head on Clint's shoulder. Eventually he reaches out to thread their fingers together too. Clint feels the other man's breath ghost across the column of his throat, where Natasha's scent is most concentrated. "D'you ever wanna do this sort of stuff with Pepper?" Clint whispers, like it's a secret.

Tony squeezes his hand. "I don't know," he says and Clint knows the hormones are getting to him too because he's being so unguarded. "Pep's a beta, so I'd have to get someone else in on it."

Clint hears the longing in Tony's tone. "Nat wouldn't mind. I wouldn't either, if it was for you and Pepper." 

"Aw, Birdbrain, I didn't know you cared." Clint feels the smirk where it's pressed against his neck. He'd roll his eyes if it didn't seem like too much work. "You're so mushy right now, it's adorable." Tony pinches his cheek and Clint yelps, but before he can retaliate Tony's already moved to pat his chest. “Thanks though. We might take you up on it sometime.”

They stay quiet after that, soft and pliant, leaning against one another until Clint hears the door open. He tenses when that smell hits him, can’t help it because it’s fucking Pavlovian at this point and even the security of the den can’t hope to suppress it.

_ Gunpowder._

_ Blood._

_ Grave Dirt. _

It seems like Hydra's aim was to make Bucky Barnes as terrifying as humanly possible, which is tragic, sure, but it doesn't change the fact that the man smells like a fresh murder scene and Clint would give anything, _ anything _ to be somewhere else right now. He fists the sheets tighter, nesting high all but obliterated in the wake of Bucky's, _ 'I will kill you and every puppy I can get my hands on,' _smell.

Clint does his level best to sit still and not crawl out of his skin.

"Calm down, Hawkguy," Tony says, sidetracking Clint from forming an escape plan. "Your heart feels like it's gonna come right out of your chest. Elsa's really got you worked up, huh?"

"S-shut up." Clint tries to snap, but his stuttering messes up the delivery.

"No, you shut up," Tony shoots back. "You're killing my buzz. C'mere."

Tony shifts until they're rearranged, Clint between his legs and his back pressed to Tony's front. From here it's easy for him to rope an arm around Clint's front, resting it just above his collarbones. Clint catches on quick and ducks his head, pressing his nose to the skin of Tony's wrist.

Clint inhales. Clover and pine. It sort of smells like he's stumbled into a ritual blood sacrifice in the middle of a forest now, but it comes with another hit of endorphins, so it's marginally better. Before long Bruce is climbing in, shooting Clint and Tony an awkward smile while Natasha and Bucky stay back and continue talking in quiet, dulcet tones.

"Glad you could join the party," Tony says. Bruce settles next to him, leaning over so they can scent one another.

"Out of the frying pan and into the fire." Bruce dips his head so Clint can catch a whiff of him. Star anise and cardamom. Clint falls a little deeper into the den's comfort, but Bucky is still lingering on the edge of his mind.

"Did he mind his manners?" Clint asks and he must be more out of it than he thought, because he tilts his head to brush his cheek against Bruce's without a second thought. 

"He wasn't bad. I thought I might have a heat stroke under all those blankets though." Bruce chuckles as Clint keeps nuzzling him. His five o'clock shadow is itchy. "Wow, you're really sweet like this. Has he been this way the whole time?"

"Yep. Who knew, right? He's been all candy and sunshine since we got in here. I'm pretty sure I caught him purring earlier."

"I was not!"

Was he?

"Of course not." Natasha makes her entrance, Bucky following close behind. "See, James?" Natasha says, moving to Tony's other side and leaving Bucky to sit at the end of the bed. "We're all safe now that you and Bruce are here. Don't you feel better, alpha?"

Jesus, she's laying it on thick.

Bucky nods, but he looks ready to run. Clint sympathizes, he feels like he could bolt too, now that everything stinks of copper and fresh dug earth.

"We're happy you're here to protect us." Natasha takes Bucky's hand and pulls until he's leaned over her. She rubs her nose against his and the tension melts right out of him.

Huh. Who would have figured the Winter Soldier had a soft spot for Eskimo kisses? Bucky's still not all the way back to himself, but he's a far cry from the feral creature that was snarling at the ceiling a few hours earlier.

It doesn't make Clint feel any better.

"Did you want to scent them?" Natasha asks, sweet as a lullaby. Bucky nods and she gives him a slow smile. "That's good, James." She pauses to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "But this is my den, so I have some rules you have to follow. Do you understand?"

Bucky swallows. Clint watches his throat work. "I understand, Natalia."

"Excellent." The corners of her mouth tick up a shade more. "You are not allowed to hurt anyone in this den. That includes biting. If you try to bite anyone here you will never," she stops, making sure Bucky is looking at her, "_Ever _set foot in one of our dens again. Do I make myself clear?"

Clint's breath catches as Bucky's blue grey eyes slide past Natasha to burn a hole in him. "Yes ma'am," he tells her, but he doesn't take his eyes off Clint. "No biting."

"Breathe," Bruce reminds him. "You've got to breathe, Clint."

Clint tries and for a moment he thinks his lungs have failed him, but then he manages a stuttered inhale through his nose and everything is fine, _ it's fine._

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

It's a double edged sword. Every breath is tainted with nitroglycerin.

"I'll hold you to that." Natasha takes Bucky's face in her hands and guides him so he's looking at her again. "The other rule is that there are no clothes in my den." Her eyes find Bruce. "That goes for you too, big guy."

Bruce complies so fast that Clint worries he's given himself whiplash. It's funny enough to cut through the tension and Clint laughs before he can stop himself. "That's the spirit, Barton." Tony holds him tighter and Clint lies back to rest his full weight against him. Soon enough everyone is down to their underwear and Bucky is sitting back on his heels, seemingly waiting for permission to touch.

"Come here, Clint," Natasha orders, and he goes, moving until he's in front of her and their legs are tangled together. Natasha gives Bucky the green light and he crawls into Tony's space, running his hands all over him and spreading that fucking murder scent wherever he touches.

Clint leans down so he's folded in half, presses his nose against Natasha's knee. He breathes deep. It helps a little.

Natasha sinks a hand into his hair, scratching behind his ear. "You're doing great," she tells him and Clint feels so grateful he could cry. "He's not going to bite you. None of us will let that happen."

Rationally he knows this. He's just not sure he believes it.

A millennia passes, or maybe just a couple of seconds, Clint's honestly not sure. The next thing he's aware of besides Natasha's touch is a low voice asking him, "Is it alright if I scent you?" 

Clint kisses the rosy skin of Natasha's knee before he straightens to meet Bucky's stare. "Alright," Clint says, giving him a watery smile. "But no biting, yeah?"

Bucky smiles back, equally tentative. "No biting," he agrees, so Clint untangles his legs from Natasha's and crawls to him. Pretends it doesn't feel like a funeral march.

It's a matter of seconds before Bucky has Clint where he wants him, tucked close and tidied away against his chest. The metal of his left arm is skin warm at this point, so it doesn't even goose Clint when it loops behind his back. Bucky bows his head, long hair tickling Clint's cheek as his nose digs into the junction where his neck meets his shoulder.

Clint screws his eyes shut and tilts his head, lets Bucky press his face into the delicate skin of his throat and leave his scent all over him.

Bucky's still nosing around the underside of Clint's jaw when he makes a small, distressed noise in the back of his throat. If Clint didn't know better he'd call it a whimper. "S'alright," Clint says thickly. "I don't have a smell. It's normal."

Bucky shakes his head and doesn't respond to that. Asks instead, "Do I know you?'

"No," Clint lies, easy as breathing. "We don't know each other."

Bucky's grip tightens briefly before he relaxes again, smoothing his flesh and bone hand across Clint's back. It's only now that Clint realizes he's shaking. "Steve told me what I did to you." Clint opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. "Told me about how wrong it was." Clint shudders, fingers spasming against Bucky's shoulders.

"I've been wanting to say this for a while now." Bucky hesitates. Clint thinks maybe he's trying to be brave. "Wanted to say I'm sorry."

And Clint doesn't know how to respond to that, so he closes his eyes and thinks about that rooftop in Mumbai, pinned down under a sky with no stars.

Thinks about the Peruvian foothills on fire and how he couldn't breathe for all the smoke in his lungs.

Thinks about his old carnival caravan, staring up at the sheets of a different den when Clint felt his teeth sink into his neck for the first time.

"I'm trying, Bucky," Clint says, unsteady. "I'm trying." It sounds lost.

"Okay," Bucky whispers, hugging him tighter before letting him go. "Okay."


	2. The Deafening of Clint Barton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is child abuse depicted in this chapter. If this is triggering to you then you should skip the first italic section. You can check the note at the bottom and I'll give you a brief synopsis so you'll get the gist of it without having to read the details.
> 
> Not beta read!

_ "Geronimo!" A seven year old Clint shrieks, launching himself from a tree branch to dive bomb his older brother. To his credit Barney doesn't even seem startled, just starts swearing up a storm while dropping his textbooks so he can get his hands free to catch the tiny blond projectile. _

_ "Fuckin' hell, Clint!" The twelve year old's knees buckle and Barney almost goes down under the additional weight, but at the last second regains his footing. "You coulda broken your neck, ya twerp! What if I hadn't caught you?" _

_ "But you always catch me, Barney." Clint gives his brother a gapped tooth grin, pleased as punch. _

_ "Yeah, but I usually know you're comin'," Barney admits before suddenly dumping Clint on his ass. The younger boy yelps and goes down in a heap. "You're turning into a sneaky little shit." _

_ Clint rubs his head, glaring at his brother before breaking into another grin. "Hey, let's go swimmin'!" _

_ "We ain't going swimmin', Clint. We don't got our suits and I ain't walking all the way home in wet underwear again." Barney gathers his books and starts back towards the house, which is the last place Clint wants to go right now. _

_ "Daddy's home," Clint admits, only a shade louder than a whisper. Barney stops, the muscles in his jaw tensing like he's just took a bite out of a big 'ol lemon. _

_ "Dammit. It ain't even dark yet." Barney hugs his books tight to his chest. Most nights daddy didn't come home till after two, because that's when last call was at Hal's bar. Barney and Clint had taken to sleeping in the hayloft so he couldn't find them when he came back reeking of scotch. _

_ But if he was already home they'd have to sleep in the house or risk him finding their hiding spot. _

_ "You know what Clint, I think you're right," Barney says eventually, changing direction so he's going towards the pond that's tucked away at the bottom of the pasture. _

_ "It's hotter than a pepper sprout. Let's go swimmin'!" Clint giggles, the Johnny Cash reference not lost on him. Mama's favorite song had been 'Jackson', and she used to sing it constantly when she was hanging clothes out to dry. _

_ He'd realize the heartbreak in that someday, standing outside a laundromat in Little Rock and humming the same damn tune. But that's not for another ten years down the line. _

_ * _

_ Daddy's not in the house when they get back but his truck's under the carport, so it's only a matter of time. Barney scrounges up a can of vienna sausages and half a sleeve of saltines that they eat in silence, scarfing the shared meal down between sips of lukewarm tap water. It's not bad, as far as dinners go in the Barton household these days. When they're done Barney makes him take a bath even though he doesn't want to ("You've got pond scum behind your ears, ya doofus!") and then he starts getting him ready for bed. _

_ Instead of tucking him into the actual bed though, Barney pulls the pillow and blankets into the closet, shoving Clint's shoes and legos over so he can make a pallet on the floor. "You should sleep here tonight," Barney tells him, jaw set. Clint longs for the safety of the hayloft, but knows they can't risk it. "Don't make a sound, okay, Clint? I need you to be as quiet as a church mouse." _

_ "Okay," Clint mumbles, staring down at the patchwork of the quilt below them. There's a small hole in the corner that needs looking after. "Are you staying in here too?" _

_ "Nah," Barney answers, ruffling Clint's hair to try and cut through some of the dread that's been building ever since they got home. "I'm gonna be in the closet in my room. That way if he finds me he won't find you too." _

_ Clint chews at the corner of his mouth and balls his hands up in the hem of his sleep shirt. _

_ "Go to bed." Barney gives his head a final pat. "I'm serious, Clint. Quiet as a confessional booth." _

_ * _

_ Clint's luck runs out a little after midnight. _

_ He was fast asleep, curled up in his blanket pile when the door jerked open and Clint had been drug out by his arm. He gasps, tries to wrench free and get his feet back under him but ends up stumbling onto the floor of the bedroom once daddy turns loose of his arm. _

_ "There you are," Harold growls, punctuating the sentence by taking a swig from his bottle of Johnnie Walker. "You been hidin' from me, boy?" _

_ "No, s-sir," Clint answers, dropping his eyes down to his lap to avoid his daddy's sneer. _

_ "Sure," Harold says, easy as you like. Clint doesn't pick up his eyes, keeps them trained on the worn leather boots in front of him. He hears daddy take another gulp out of that black label bottle. Listens to his ragged mouth breathing as the pit in Clint's stomach opens up bigger and bigger until he feels like he's gonna fall through it and never see the sun again. _

_ "Where's your brother then?" _

_ Clint's shoulders hunch up around his ears. "I don't know, sir." _

_ The blow is expected and open palmed against the side of his face. Clint's teeth sink into his bottom lip to stop any sounds from coming out, knows the louder he is the harder daddy hits. _

_ "I don't know," Harold laughs but it don't sound like a laugh, sounds more like a monster that's hungry. "Aren't you good for anything?" _

_ Clint screws his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears at bay. He doesn't want to answer because he knows it's a trap, he'll get a smack no matter what, but he has to do something so he gives a little shrug, the barest twitching of his shoulders upwards. _

_ He doesn't get hit though, instead Harold takes him by the ear and pinches hard, twisting and pulling at it until Clint gets up with a yowl. "Answer the question, Clinton." Harold twists more viciously until Clint can't hold back the sob anymore. _

_ "I ain't good for nothin'," Clint manages, because he sure don't feel like he's worth much of anything right now. _

_ Harold clutches at Clint's arm with one meaty hand to keep him from going anywhere and slams the other one down, closed fisted this time, against the side of his face. Harold's class ring catches on Clint's eyebrow and the pain is so bright and sudden that he can't hope to stop from crying out. _

_ "That's right. You ain't worth the slop it takes to feed you," Harold growls, shoving Clint away from him. "Now get the fuck back in bed." Clint scrambles to comply, rushing over to the side of his bed. "If you see your bitch of a brother, let him know I'm lookin' for 'em." _

_ Clint pauses halfway into crawling up on the bed and flicks his eyes over to his daddy, who's taking another slug outta that damned black label bottle. Clint feels the anger swell up, graveyard dark, and grits his teeth to keep from saying anything that might get himself hit again. _

_ Harold has his back turned to Clint when he mumbles, "It was just like that hateful woman to do somethin' as rotten as giving me a bitch for a son." _

_ And Clint knows better, honest to God he does. Knows nothing good will come from doing what he's about to do, but he reaches for the lamp anyways. There's a split second where he tries to talk himself out of it, tells himself that this is a special kind of stupid that'll only lead to a worse beating. _

_ But nobody's ever accused Clint of having an over abundance of brains, so he does it anyways. _

_ "Hey asshole," Clint says, winding that lamp back like he's Sandy Koufax about to pitch a perfect game. "The only bitch in this house is you." _

_ He hurls the lamp as hard as he can, grins ferociously when his aim is true and he hits his mark. Harold goes down with a yell, stumbling all over himself in an explosion of porcelain and lightbulb shards. It feels like a victory, like fireworks. There are five seconds of silence, of pure bliss, where Clint_ _ is the one towering over daddy for a change and everything is worth it._

_ But all good things must come to an end. Mama had taught him that. _

_ Harold comes up snarling and aims a fist at Clint's belly. He falls hard, hits the ground on his knees and he can't _ ** _breathe. _ ** _ He tries gasping, struggles to take in air any way he can get it, but Harold has knocked the wind out of his sails and left him heaving. Clint's so preoccupied with trying to get his lungs working again that he doesn't realize the boot's coming until it's too late. _

_ Clint screams when it crashes into the side of his head, right on top of his left ear, and the pain is white hot and blinding. It makes an awful crunching noise so deep inside his own head he gags, retches at the same time he's trying to get a breath in and Clint thinks he must be drowning. Harold snatches him up by his hair, fisting both his hands into it to drag him across the floor, heedless of his youngest son's wailing. When Harold gets to the end of the bed he grabs Clint's chin, keeping the other hand threaded through his hair as he viciously cracks the right side of Clint's head against the edge of the footboard. _

_ And then there's nothing. _

_ * _

_ He opens his eyes and for a little while daddy is looming, eyes burning clear through him with a rage Clint has never seen before. His mouth is moving but Clint can't hear much of anything at all, can't even feel it when Harold pulls his head one way to expose his neck. Doesn't notice when daddy's teeth dig into the skin of his throat as he bites and bites, over and over again until he's got Clint bleeding._

_ He does see Barney though, casting a shadow over the both of them. Notices the white knuckle grip he's got on the baseball bat, can spot the fury on his face when he slams it down over the back of daddy's head. _

_ And then there's nothing. _

_ * _

_ When he opens his eyes this time he's still in the same spot on the floor, in a tacky pool of his own blood. He can see that daddy is up on the bed, his back to Clint while he's crouched over Barney. His brother is lying there all glassy eyed, staring straight at Clint while Harold sinks his teeth into his neck. _

_ Everything's quiet, but Clint can tell Barney's trying to say something. His mouth is moving in the same pattern over and over again, eyes far away but still trained on Clint's. The younger boy moves his mouth too, mimics the shape his brother is making with his lips again and again until he understands. _

_ Run. _

_ Clint doesn't know how he does it, but somehow he gets to his feet. Barney stops moving his mouth and closes his eyes, tears tracking down his face and rolling off his chin. It's just as well, Clint can't stand to look at his brother either, doesn't ever want to remember him looking so vulnerable. _

_ Clint is out the back door and running through the yard before he knows it, lungs burning as he makes for the corn field. He's hoping that it will take daddy long enough to follow him that Clint can make it to Billy Hollingsworth's house to call the sheriff, but if Harold heard him slam the screen door on the way out then Clint knows he doesn't have much time. His bare feet are tender from sprinting through the rows unprotected, but he can't stop, he has to keep goi-- _

_ Something hard and unyielding grabs him around the collar of his shirt and jerks him to the ground. Clint goes down like a sack of bricks, whimpers at the sudden impact but doesn't hear the sound. For a fleeting moment Clint thinks Harold has caught up to him, but then his eyes adjust and Clint realizes it isn't Harold that's got him at all. _

_ There's a man crouched down next to him, long and dark like a shadow with an arm that gleams in the moonlight. His hair is shaggy and he's got a knife dripping blood in his metal hand and oh god there's blood on his face too and he's a nightmare, he's the bogeyman, he's-- _

_ He's setting the knife down, careful and slow. He's taking his metal hand and gently cupping Clint's face, angling his head up and tracing the fingers of his other hand over the ruins of his neck. _

_ The shadow moves his mouth, but there is no sound. _

_ Clint wails, sobs so hard he can feel his chest rattle with it, but still there is no sound. He's got blood in his eyes and snot running down his face when he finally manages to hiccup out, "I c-cant hear so good." The shadow's expression doesn't change, studying the boy intently until all at once he's whipping his head up, eyes focusing on something in the distance back towards the house. _

_ "I'm gonna die," Clint tells the shadow and knows it's true. "He's gonna kill me." _

_ The shadow looks back at Clint to meet his gaze and shakes his head. Brings his flesh hand to his mouth and holds a finger up to shush him before grabbing Clint's hands and pressing them over his eyes. Then the shadow lets go and Clint doesn't know if he's alone or not. _

_ Clint sits there with his head buried in hands and tries his best not to make a sound. He's got no option left but to trust the shadow. _

_ He waits. _

_Everything's quiet. _

_ * _

_ The shadow's hands are back, prying Clint's away from his face so he can get a good look at him. Clint doesn't know what he's looking for but whatever it is he must find it, because in the next heartbeat he's scooping Clint up and cradling him close, trudging back towards the house. _

_ Clint attempts to turn his head so he can watch where they're going but the shadow stops him, redirects his face so it's pressed into the man's neck and he can't see anything at all. _

_ "Barney" Clint says, but he can't hear it. "We've got to get Barney." _

_ The shadow keeps walking. _

_ * _

_ When Clint wakes next he's tucked into Barney's bed with his brother right there next to him. The twelve year old is covered in blood and bruises, but his chest is steady rising, still breathing in spite of Harold Barton's best attempt at killing them both. _

_ Clint gets up and limps for the phone. He calls 911 and everything is quiet. He repeats his name and address over and over until the cops show up. _

_ * _

_ They say his daddy was killed trying to save his boys from some unknown intruder and Clint doesn't correct them. He's not sure how to say it was the shadow that was the one doing the saving and doesn't figure they'd believe him anyways, so he keeps his mouth shut. _

_ * _

"I have missed the denning?" Thor booms, expression so obviously stricken that it physically pains Clint to look at him.

"Sorry, big guy," Clint says and isn't surprised to find that he means it. Thor's been steadily worming his way into Clint's heart for months now, but the interview he gave with _ 'People' _a few weeks back really sealed the deal. When asked what he thought his second gender would be if Asgardian's had them Thor answered, "Omega" without a moment's hesitation. When the interviewer pushed for a reason Thor responded with, "Most of my fellow Avengers are omega and they are some of the bravest and most fearsome warriors I know. I would be honored to be counted amongst them."

So yeah, Clint had a soft spot for Thor.

The other reason Clint loved hanging around Thor, soft spot aside, was the fact that he was some sort of magical scent sink. Whenever Thor was in a room he sucked all the alpha and omega smells right out of it, which made Clint's lack of smell unnoticeable because, well, nobody smelled like anything. Clint knew that was one of the reasons Wanda like hanging out with him too, since she didn't have to be on guard all the time.

(_ Clint had only smelled Wanda once when they were training together alone in the gym. He'd been shooting at targets while Wanda deflected them back at him with magic, forcing him to shoot the original arrows mid flight with new ones. It was great practice and Wanda kept a continuous wall of shimmering red energy up around Clint to keep him safe, just in case he missed any of the projectiles. _

_ It wasn't necessary, but it was appreciated nonetheless. _

_ "I'm out," Clint says once the quiver at his hip is empty. "Gimme a breather and I'll be ready to go again in like five, ten minutes tops." _

_ He doesn't wait for an answer before flopping down on one of the practice mats. He closes his eyes and puffs out a sigh. When he opens them next Wanda is standing over him, obvious affection warring with something else. _

_ "What's up, Wanda?" He asks, cocking his head as he stares up at her. _

_ She looks like she's steeling herself. "Don't freak out, okay?" _

_ "What?" He answers right before she drops the magic and the scent hits him full force. _

_ It's staggering, so much smell he can hardly think straight. It's like standing in a sugarcane thicket so dense you can't see anything else for miles, stalks tall enough to black out the sun. _

_ "Wow," Clint laughs once the magic slides back in place and she's beta neutral again, just like him. "That's fucking colossal." _

_ "Mmhmm," Wanda hums, plopping down so she's laid out next to him. Clint reaches to wind a rust colored lock of hair around his finger, wondering idly how come he keeps collecting redheads. "Pietro smelt like bamboo." _

_ And there's a sadness there that's still aching, so Clint gives Wanda's hair another tug before letting go to roll over and face her. "Hey," he says, face split in a shit eating grin. "Does this mean I get to call you sugar?" _

_ Wanda rolls her eyes. "Only if I get to call you mom." _

_ Clint opens his mouth to give a witty retort but then Wanda's using her magic to yank him up by his leg and he's squwking instead. "Breaks over, old man!" She laughs, dumping him back down onto the practice mats.) _

"We could make another one?" Wanda offers, perched on the couch next to Clint. She's got her feet in his lap and Clint's working his thumb against the arch of one of them. "I wouldn't mind nesting with you two."

Thor looks up, eyes so damn hopeful that it breaks Clint's heart to have to turn him down. "Sorry," he mumbles, suddenly sheepish. "It's not that I wouldn't want to. It could be fun I guess, nice even, but, um, it takes a lot out of me." Clint flashes Thor his very best apologetic grin. "Rain check?" 

Thor claps a hand down over Clint's shoulder. "There is no need to apologise, Hawk. The day you chose to share your den with me will be most cherished."

Clint goes just about as pink as he can get and Wanda falls over with a cackle. Thor's eyebrows draw together, clearly confused. "Was that not right?"

"No Thor, it's fine." Clint sends Wanda a pointed glare to get her to hush. "Wanda's just laughing because it sounds like something out of an omega bodice ripper." Thor looks horrified, so Clint adds quickly, "But like, a _ super _ classy one, y'know?"

Thor still looks thoroughly chastised and Clint hates it. "We could do something else?" He offers, grinning when Thor looks up excitedly. "Hey Friday, can you order us some pizza?"

And after a beat, he adds, "And can you call up, '_ The Enchanted Florist' _for me, please?"

*

They've worked their way through a six pack of Blue Moon and multiple pizzas before their flower delivery arrives. They end up with three boxes overflowing with a multitude of blossoms, but the majority of them are daisies.

"They're your favorite?" Wanda asks, nimble fingers winding stems together in a rough outline of a crown. It takes Clint a second to answer because_ 'Thelma & Louise' _is playing on the TV behind her and Brad Pitt is shirtless in a cowboy hat. 

It's distracting.

"Yep," Clint responds, once he can tear his eyes off the screen, finger combing Thor's hair before starting his first braid. They're sitting all in a row, Clint on the couch with the god bracketed between his knees, and Wanda in front with Thor working careful braids into her long tresses.

"But they're filler flowers," Wanda protests, weaving a peony through in an attempt to give the crown more panache.

"I wasn't trying to spend all of Tony's money," Clint points out around the elastic in his teeth, before using said elastic to tie two braids together. "They were my mom's favorite too. Me and my brother used to pick them on the way home and give them to her."

"That is a very good tale, my friend!" Thor exclaims, artfully staggering daffodils into the braids of Wanda's hair. "I too would pick flowers and present them to my mother when I was a boy."

"Aw, how sweet!" Wanda coos, setting the finished flower crown down beside her. "You guys were both mama's boys."

"Mmhm," Clint hums, fixing a final splattering of floppy sunflowers through the braids under his fingers.The elevator dings and Clint doesn't even glance back at it, focusing on putting the finishing touches on Thor's hair. "All done, big guy," Clint tells him, giving his shoulders a friendly pat. "Pretty as a picture."

Thor makes a pleased noise at the same time someone behind them makes a strangled one. All three of their heads swivel around, looking more like a pack of meerkats than three superheroes at rest.

Steve's standing there and his eyes are darting between them frantically, like he can't figure out where to look first. He opens his mouth, shuts it, waves his hands in a flappy, jerking movement before stuffing them under his armpits, like he can't trust them to not do something stupid. Clint snorts, because Steve's reaction to omegas doing anything remotely domestic never gets old.

"Hey, Steve," Clint greets, cheek dimpling as he shoots the other man a knowing grin.

"Hey." Steve shifts his weight from foot to foot, visibly fretting. "Is it okay if Bucky's here too?"

Clint leans over to crane his head around Steve and sure enough Bucky is standing by the elevator, hiding behind his hair with his hands shoved in his pockets. Clint inhales, trying to catch a whiff of copper or grave dirt, but everything just smells like flowers. 

Clint feels a thump and glances down to see Thor's head flopped back against his thighs. He's peering up at him, watching intently, and all at once Clint realizes that he'd started bouncing his leg anxiously the second he'd noticed Bucky. Clint wills himself to stop fidgeting and thumps Thor's nose to get him to quit worrying. "It's fine, the more the merrier."

Clint told Bucky he'd try after all, so he figures the least he can do is mean it.

"Come on, Steve," Wanda says, dropping the flower crown on Clint's head. "I'll make you one too."

Steve turns ten different shades of pink, but he's grinning ear to ear and looking all kinds of pleased. He goes back to get Bucky and then it takes a moment to get everyone settled, Wanda and Steve sorting through what's left of the flowers and Thor going over to supervise the whole operation. Bucky stands by the couch, obviously uncomfortable, until Clint finally has mercy and wonders, "Did you want braids too?"

Bucky goes rose red and looks just about as pretty as one. "Is that something that alphas do?" He asks, so completely unsure of himself that some of the ice melts away from Clint's heart.

"That doesn't have anything to do with it." Clint ducks his head to try and catch Bucky's eyes. He's still hiding behind his hair. "All that matters is if it's something you like or not." Clint stays quiet, watching Bucky rub at his metal arm. "Do you want me to braid your hair for you?" Clint offers again, tone as gentle as he can manage.

"Yes." Bucky's voice is more certain this time. "I want you to braid my hair."

"You got it," Clint answers, aiming for light hearted and unbothered as he nods down at his feet. "Take a load off, Barnes, and I'll get right on that."

Bucky eventually slinks over, head still bowed as he turns his back to Clint and hunkers down between his knees. Clint's hands hover, hesitating a moment before burying his fingers in the other man's hair. It's softer than he would have guessed, not quite as silky as Natasha's, but it's a close call. Clint starts at the bottom, easing tangles out with careful touches, softening the longer he pets through Bucky's hair and nothing bad happens.

Clint can feel Steve watching, standing sentry close by, but when Clint chances a glance all he sees is hope in those baby blues. And wow, okay, that's a lot of pressure to put on this interaction and Clint can't handle that right now so he ignores him, focusing back on the task at hand.

"Are you tender headed?" Clint asks, parting Bucky's hair down the middle. It's not super sharp without a comb, but it'll keep.

"I'm not sure…?" Bucky responds, like he's not even certain what those words mean.

"That's fine." Clint ties off one side to keep it out of the way for now. "Just let me know if I hurt you. Hold your head up for me. No, no, like this." Clint lets a hand wander under Bucky's jaw to give it a nudge. "Perfect."

Clint gets to work, being as gentle as possible while still keeping the braids tight. Bucky seems content to watch the television and let Clint work in silence for a while, but eventually breaks it by saying, "This is a weird movie."

"A little," Clint admits, glancing up just in time to see Geena Davis plant one on Susan Sarandon. "It's kind of cheesy, but I like it."

"Why?" Bucky's nose scrunches up as the protagonists link hands and race off to their inevitable demise at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. 

Clint shrugs. "They spend the whole movie trying to save each other." He ties off the remainder of Bucky's hair with his last elastic, the end result being two braids that fade into a high bun. "It's romantic."

"If you say so." Bucky looks like he's trying to bite back a laugh at the whole slow motion, over dramatic ending. 

"I do say so," Clint huffs, but he's holding back a smile. "Now turn around so I can check the front."

Bucky obliges, twisting to stare up at him. Clint takes a minute to smooth away some of the wispy baby hairs that are too short to stay in the braid. "Almost," Clint says, leaning over to pluck a daisy out of the box next to his feet. He tucks the flower behind Bucky's ear, then pulls back to get a good look. "Very handsome," Clint says, quieter now. His stomach feels fluttery, but he does his best to ignore it.

Bucky's mouth quirks before settling on a slow, crooked smile. "You think so?" He asks, but apparently rhetorically because then he's turning to Steve and saying, "How do I look, punk?"

Steve looks their way, a ring of garden roses in his hair, and flashes them that all American megawatt smile. "You're as pretty as a peach, Buck."


	3. The First Time (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not betad, so, excuse, my, excessive, use, of, commas, I'm, dramatic.

_ Clint is twelve years old and tucked away in one of Ms. Peterson's spare bedrooms when someone lays a hand on his shoulder to wake him. Clint blinks, clearing the blurriness from his eyes to make out his brother's face peering down at him. Barney, who is just two weeks shy of turning eighteen and finally growing into his shoulders, makes a show of dangling Clint's BTEs at him before reaching to loop them over Clint's ears._

_ "Everything alright?" Clint asks anxiously. They'd been with Ms. Peterson for four months now and so far everything seemed fine. Which was to say that they had three square meals a day and no one had tried to beat on them yet. Honestly it was the best run in a foster home they'd had in a long time._

_ "I overheard Phyllis talkin' on the phone," Barney explains, refusing to call Ms. Peterson by anything other than her first name. "They're fixin' to try and separate us," he pauses, expression grim. "And they don't intend to let me have custody of you."_

_ "What?" Clint sits up in a rush, not the least bit sleepy anymore. "Why?"_

_ "Jesus, Clint, keep your fuckin' voice down," Barney whispers harshly, covering Clint's mouth with his hand. They both hold their breath, listening closely. When Ms. Peterson doesn't come to check on them Barney relaxes, letting his hand fall away. "They said I wouldn't be able to make enough money to take care of you," Barney admits, quiet. "They said I'm too violent."_

_ And in reality, Clint knows that maybe both of those things are a little true. Barney really is violent towards anyone that so much as looks at them funny (Hell, he'd given their last foster father a black eye just for implying Clint was lazy) and it's hard to imagine how an eighteen year old could be financially responsible for both himself and his kid brother. _

_ That knowledge, however, does nothing to dampen the sense of dread Clint is currently experiencing._

_ "Don't cry in front of other people, baby brother," Barney lectures, using the sleeve of his shirt to mop up Clint's tears._

_ "'Cause it's a weakness?" Clint guesses, sniffling pitifully._

_ "Nah, that ain't it," Barney says, patting Clint's head. "Everyone cries and if they say otherwise they're fuckin' lyin'. You just gotta do it alone, so no one can use it against you. Now quit with the waterworks and pack your shit, kid, 'cause I ain't about to leave you behind."_

_ *_

_ They end up leaving just after one o'clock in the morning, after they steal pretty much all the dry food they can get their hands on. They take Ms. Peterson's oldsmobile too and Clint's stomach is so knotted up with guilt that he feels sick._

_ "We're not takin' it far," Barney tells him as they're crossing into Illinois. Clint stares out the window and frets while they're driving over the Comanche river. "I swear we're gonna dump it in a few hours, Clint. Then we can call Phyllis in a few weeks and tip her off. Don't pout, ya twerp."_

_ "I ain't poutin'," Clint grumbles, sinking down lower in the seat and putting his feet up on the dash._

_ *_

_ They make it to Saint Louis in about six hours and Barney decides it's as good a place as any to ditch the oldsmobile. They pull into a parking lot and Barney stops the car next to a decrepit looking Chevy Blazer. _

_ "Lesson one on liftin' cars," Barney says, fussing with Clint's hoody to make sure his face is covered. "Pick a heap of junk. Cops are fuckin' lazy and nobody wants to chase you down if the car ain't worth nothin'."_

_ "That one doesn't look fit to drive," Clint points out as Barney turns around to rummage through a bag in the backseat._

_ "It don't gotta get us far. We're gonna switch again here in a coupla hours anyways," Barney tells him, finally freeing a slim jim from the duffle bag._

_ "You just carry that around with you?" Clint wonders, eyeing the thin length of metal._

_ "No, but I do keep it in my, 'Get the fuck outta Dodge,' bag. Remember, Clint, you--,"_

_ "Always gotta be ready to run," Clint finishes, exasperated. "I know, I know."_

_ "Smartass," Barney groues. "Okay, so it's gonna go down like this. We're gonna lean up on that car like it already belongs to us, casual like, and while we're chit chattin' imma jimmy open the door."_

_ "What are we gonna talk about?" Clint asks._

_ "It don't fuckin' matter what we talk about, baby brother. We're only doin' it so if somebody sees us from across the parking lot we look natural and not like we're fixin' to steal this rig," Barney explains, gesticulating wildly with the slim jim. "Now once I get in there you need to pay attention to what I'm doin', 'cause you're in charge of the next one."_

_ "You're gonna teach me how to hotwire a car?" Clint gasps, eyes wide as dinner plates. _

_ "Yeah, I'm gonna learn ya," Barney laughs. "That's what big brothers are for."_

_ The plan goes off without a hitch. Clint watches, enraptured as Barney fiddles with the innards of the steering column until the blazer sputters to life. "See?" Barney says, winking at him. "Piece 'o cake."_

_ Later, when they've been on the road for a while it occurs to Clint to ask, "Where're we goin'?"_

_ Barney shoots him a grin, eyes alight with mischief and something Clint can't quite place. In lieu of answering, he starts to belt out the first couple of lines of, 'Jackson'._

_ Clint smiles so hard his face hurts. He joins in, a shade off key but enthusiastic nonetheless. Clint thinks that maybe, just maybe, their luck is finally changing._

_ *_

_ They make it to Jackson, Mississippi by nightfall and Clint manages to convince Barney to take him to the circus that's passing through. They like it so much they never leave._

_ * _

Thor goes off world the day after their hair braiding party and Bucky goes back to stinking up the place. Only now it's so much worse, because he seems to have taken Clint's olive branch as an invitation to live on the community floor. Everytime Clint wants to grab something from the shared kitchen (Tony keeps it stocked with the best snacks) or he just plain wants to hang out, Bucky is always_ right_ _there_ and it's freaking annoying.

So, like the true adult he is, Clint avoids the problem and spends the next few days holed up in his room. It's lonely in his self imposed exile and his favorite redheads are both out on a mission, so there's no one to come visit. He starts to go a little stir crazy at the end of the first week and by the end of the second he’s ready to start scaling walls. 

Then one morning he wakes to find he's run out of coffee grounds and it dawns on him that he's going to have to brave the community kitchen if he wants his caffeine fix. He's only wearing sleep pants when he makes it to the door but quickly doubles back to pull on a shirt, because if Barnes is there then the last thing Clint wants is to walk around with his belly exposed. It's only when he's in the elevator and halfway down to the communal floor that Clint registers the fact that he'd forgotten his hearing aids.

He fights down a surge of panic as the doors come apart, schooling his expression to be as neutral as possible. Sure enough Bucky is camped out at the bar next to Steve, both of them shoveling down breakfast food like they're getting paid for it. Clint keeps his head down and attempts to be subtle about sniffing, catching a hint of Bucky but mostly Steve is overpowering it, which is pretty typical.

Steve's smell is overkill on a good day and exactly what you’d expect of an alpha, all vintage leather and bergamot. Clint makes a beeline for the coffee pot, not even so much as glancing up to make eye contact with anyone, which turns out to be an egregious error. 

Clint’s focused on stirring sugar into his coffee, head still fuzzy with sleep, when an arm, _ a motherfucking metal arm, _ reaches around him to snatch a spare mug. Clint turns sharply and realizes with growing hysteria that Bucky is right there, inadvertently caging him against the kitchen counter. The other man is saying something, brows creasing with an indeterminable emotion but Clint can't make himself focus on how Bucky's mouth is moving or what words he might be forming because he's _ trapped._

Clint just about loses his goddamn mind. 

He's got Bucky slammed against the kitchen tiles before either one of them knows what's happening, straddling the other man and bowing down to snarl in his ear. Both of Bucky's arms are pinned for now, but Clint knows it's only a matter of time before the left one breaks loose. That cybernetic arm is already whirring, plates shifting in preparation for something, and Clint's heart makes the leap from his chest to his throat.

Clint doesn't want to take his eyes off Bucky but he doesn't have a choice in the matter, because if he doesn't act now, it's going to happen again. His gaze flits from one place to the next, searching for something. Eventually they land on his overturned coffee cup and Clint lets go of Bucky's metal arm to snatch it up, bashing it against the counter _ hard,_ ceramic shattering like fireworks. Clint's hand is immediately cut to shit but he doesn't even process it, grips the biggest shard and presses it to the thin skin on the underside of Bucky's jaw.

Bucky stares, wide eyed and mouth agape. Clint stares right back, breathing hard, never easing pressure off his makeshift blade. Then, like flipping a switch, Bucky's expression shuts off. He deliberately goes limp, tilting his head so the expanse of his neck is exposed. Which is really fucking weird, right? Clint's got something sharp jammed up under his chin and Bucky's first reaction is to give him more room to make the killing blow?

Why would he do that?

The only thing Clint can figure is maybe Bucky is going for non-threatening, which is the exact opposite of what usually happens. Normally when Bucky gets him trapped he bites, and if Clint fights back Bucky just pins him down and bites that much harder. Clint's nose twitches and Bucky's scent shifts, the gunsmoke dissipating, the blood going cold, the soil drenched in rain water. Bucky smells sad, devastated even, like he's so remorseful he can't stand it.

"Shit," Clint says, swallowing thickly and letting the broken coffee cup slip free. "Shit, Bucky, I didn't mean, damnit, I'm sorry--,"

A hand fits under the fabric of his shirt and squeezes his shoulder, dangerously close to his neck. It's enough to send Clint back into a panicked tailspin and he twists on instinct, sinking his teeth mercilessly into the offending hand. Blood wells up in his mouth before the hand manages to tear away and Clint uses the opportunity to scramble to his feet and vault over the kitchen counter.

When he looks back Steve is standing there, mangled hand held tight to his chest and looking conflicted. Bucky stays on the floor, but he picks his head up and says something to Steve that Clint can't make out at this angle.

"The next time you put your hands on my neck without asking," Clint says, using the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his mouth. "I'll tear them off you."

Then he flees.

*

Natasha opens the door and stares down at him, arms crossed and tremendously unimpressed.

"Go away, Nat," Clint grumbles from beneath his blanket cocoon at the bottom of the closet. 

"You're sulking," she says, squatting and resting her weight back on her heels. Her leathers creak with the movement and he belatedly realizes she's still in her all black mission outfit.

"Yeah, I am," Clint says, not even bothering to hide it. "I acted like an animal at breakfast, attacked a teammate for no reason, and_ bit _ Captain America," he lists, hunching further into the blanket wrapped around him. "That's practically a war crime, Nat. I deserve solitary confinement."

"So this is your way of punishing yourself?" Natasha reaches out, searching until she finds his bandaged hand and pulling it into the light, turning his fingers to examine them.

"No," Clint snaps, before he amends, "Yes," followed by a very dejected sounding, "I don't know, maybe?" He tolerates her inspection of his first aid skills for approximately five seconds before tugging his hand back.

Natasha hums, like all of that made perfect sense. "Well, Steve's distraught," she says and the subsequent pang of guilt gives Clint a stomach ache. "James is worried too."

"I can't do this," Clint grumbles, shuffling the covers over his face to block everything out. "Just take me out back and shoot me. Put me out of my misery."

"You're pitiful," Natasha acknowledges, pushing aside the blanket until Clint reemerges. "But why don't you stop all the whining and just go apologize?"

Clint fusses with the fabric between his fingers. "I'm trying, Nat, honest, but he smells like a nightmare." He feels his ears heat. Natasha would never hold it against him but still, it's hard to admit.

"I actually might have a solution for that."

"Really?" Clint perks up. "What is it?"

"I was talking it over with Sam. We think if I scented James a few times a day it might help,” Natasha informs him, her smile turning sly. “You do like how I smell, don’t you?”  
  
“Don’t fish for compliments, it’s unladylike,” he teases, sticking out a foot to pinch her with his toes. Natasha swats him away before he can follow through. “You know you smell incredible. So what, we're hoping I'll associate his smell with you?" She nods. "Oh God, you're conditioning me!" Natasha grins, all teeth, and Clint groans. "I'm the dog."

"You're the dog," Natasha agrees, reaching out to flick his nose. "And James will be the bell."

Clint's nose wrinkles. "What does that make you?"

Natasha smirks. "Pavlov, of course." 

Clint sighs, burrowing back into his cocoon. "Fucking Pavlov."

_ *_

They draw up an apology plan and Clint sets about executing it the next morning.

He crawls out of bed at six o'clock sharp, right when Bucky and Steve usually go out for their morning jog. Clint stops to grab Natasha on the way down to the common floor and when they get there she perches on the kitchen counter, legs swishing. Clint fetches her an apple to munch on while they wait for the coffee to brew. 

He lets her nibble the apple all the way down to the core before he presses a mug of coffee into her hands. It's made to her taste, no sugar and entirely too much cream. Natasha hums, leaning over to brush her lips against his cheek in thanks. Clint returns the gesture before going to fish a skillet out of the cabinet so he can start cooking.

He's in the process of scrambling eggs by the time Steve and Bucky make it back. Steve takes one look at them and blushes all the way down his chest, which Clint can clearly see because they're both shirtless. "What's got you so flustered, Steve?" Clint asks, biting back a grin. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a bead of sweat track down Bucky's neck, pooling in the well of his collarbones.

Clint chews at the corner of his mouth and goes back to minding the eggs.

"I'm not flustered!" Steve protests. Bucky snickers.

"It's because you're barefoot in the kitchen makin' breakfast." Clint glances down and huh, what do you know, he is barefoot. He flexes his toes against the tiles. "It doesn't help that Natalia's barefoot too," Bucky supplies and Clint thinks maybe he's a bit red from more than just his morning run too. "You both look like a 1940s cutout of omega housewives."

"Should we go?" Steve asks, ignoring their teasing and getting straight to the heart of the matter. "We don't want to make you uncomfortable, Clint."

He's so earnest that it's heartbreaking. "No. I want you to stay and let me make it up to you." Clint meets Bucky's eyes, then glances down to plate the eggs. "Both of you."

"Is this...," Bucky stops, blinks twice. "Did you make us an apology breakfast?"

"It's an apology breakfast," Natasha confirms. Clint slips on some oven mitts (Steve barely restrains a gasp and really Steve, oven mitts?) and pulls the biscuits out of the oven. "But it's also a strategy meeting."

Natasha leads Bucky and Steve over to the table, leaving Clint to get breakfast squared away. He serves Natasha first, then Steve. He goes back to the kitchen to grab the last two plates and doesn't even flinch when Bucky's fingers brush his during the trade off.

It's still a little frightening, sitting across from the man who has spent the last two decades haunting him. But the bergamot is sweet, the promises well kept, and the soil is resting, like the gun has been put away and the corpse long buried. 

"So," Bucky says, drawing Clint out of his musings. "You're the dog, huh?" 

Clint gives a startled laugh, his insides swooping at the crinkles that form around Bucky's eyes when he smiles back at him. 

"Woof," Clint says in agreement.

_ *_

_ Clint is eighteen years old and going over the new routine with Barney when he feels it for the first time, a sharp sensation that gnaws at him from behind his belly button. It's so sudden it has him shooting wide and missing the first balloon._

_ "Stop," Barney hollers up at him and Clint listens, cradling his bow to his chest as he lets himself fall from the circus swing to land in the nets below. He lays there for a moment, just taking stock, and grimaces when the feeling spreads, his whole stomach aching and sore. "Blugh," Clint grumbles, pulling the blindfold off and staring up at the ceiling of the bigtop, wallowing in the pain before rolling over and off the safety net. _

_ He walks over to where Barney is dismounting Acorn, a high spirited horse they use during their shows. She's meaner than a wet cat, but she's steady under pressure and never gets skittish when Barney fires flaming arrows off her back, so Clint doesn't mind her personality._

_ "What's the matter with you?" Barney asks, tying Acorn to the hitching post. The bells in her tail sing as she stomps irritably. _

_ "Maybe I just missed," Clint snaps, surprising both of them. His belly twinges again and he grunts, pressing a hand against it._

_ "Clint." Barney frowns, giving his brother a once over. "You haven't missed that bad since you was sixteen, even with the blindfold. Something's wrong, I can tell. So tell me what it is already so I can get to fixin' it."_

_ The ache becomes more persistent and Clint's skin is starting to feel about two sizes too small. He envies the way a snake can shed its skin when it gets too tight and grow a whole new one and, huh, that's a really fucking weird thing to be thinking about right now._

_ "I might be comin' down with something," Clint admits, scratching at his stomach. Barney's frown deepens and he wipes his hand on his jeans, pressing it to Clint's forehead._

_ "I think you caught a fever," Barney tells him, eyebrows knitting together. "I better let Trickshot know so he can get another show lined up."_

_ "No, don't do that. I'll be fine," Clint protests, even as he starts to feel weak limbed and fuzzy. "It's our first time doing this set and--,"_

_ "And you're sick, Clint, so cut the back sass. They'll survive a night or two without us. 'Sides, you're white as a sheet and look like a breeze would blow you over."_

_ "I ain't doin' that poorly," Clint argues, but in the same breath he's reaching out to brace himself against Barney's arm to stop from doubling over. "Ouch. Jesus, maybe you're right." Clint blows out a breath that morphs into a pained wheeze halfway through. _

_ "Quit hammin' it up, you're actin' like you're dying or something."_

_ "I'd have to feel better to die," Clint bitches, both arms wrapped around his middle and his teeth gritted together. There's a hollowness inside of him, steady and persistent in it's attempts at making itself known._

_ "You're the biggest drama queen alive," Barney teases, but Clint can tell he's fretting about it because he gives both of Clint's arms a squeeze before helping to straighten him back up. "You head on back to the caravan, I'll see to Acorn and let Trickshot know you're out of commission."_

_ Clint doesn't have to be told twice. The trek back to their caravan is miserable and takes about three times longer than it should. By the time Clint gets the door shut behind him and climbs into bed, his hair is drenched in sweat and he feels weary and restless all at once. He twists around to crank up the window unit behind the bed before collapsing on top of the covers._

_ Fuck, his skin is _ ** _crawling_**_. Clint shifts as that hollowness becomes all encompassing, squirms until it feels monumental, like he can never hope to overcome it._

_ Clint's got his shirt off and is working on losing his pants when the door clangs open. "Barney," Clint pants, unmoored, adrift in the agony. "Barney, I think I'm actually fucking dying."_

_ Barney takes one look at him and starts swearing, but then he's also laughing, which is just plain confusing. "It don't look like your dyin' to me, Clint. It looks like you're startin' to heat up."_

_ Well that wakes him right up. "The hell I am!" Clint protests, sitting up in such a hurry it makes him light headed. His stomach spasms in retaliation, abs visibly flinching. "I'm a beta!"_

_ "You're a late bloomer is what you are," Barney corrects, grinning ear to ear. Clint would punch him if it didn't seem like too much work. "This is a good thing, baby brother, because I can fix it. Now stand up so I can get the cover on the bed. I don't want you ruinin' the mattress."_

_ "That's so gross," Clint laments. He's so far gone that he doesn't think he's actually processing this turn of events. He feels simultaneously like he's wracked with fever chills and also like someone has stuck hot needles in belly._

_ "Natural," Barney huffs, pulling the sheets off to snap on not one, but two mattress protectors. "What you meant to say is that it's fuckin' natural."_

_ "The two aren't mutually exclusive, jerk," Clint spits out, hunching down into himself like if he can somehow get small enough, everything will stop being on fire._

_ "Quit whining, it ain't that bad," Barney tells him and Clint really wants to disagree. Barney lets him back on the bed before going over to the cabinets on the other side of the caravan. He goes through them and pilfers a couple of things before coming back over to sit by Clint._

_ "I think I'm about to have a come apart," Clint says, losing his hold on the last shred of his sanity._

_ "Clint, I got sympathy for you, honest, but you have got to knock it off with the theatrics. I only have so much patience and you're steady workin' on wearin' it thin."_

_ "Everything hurts," Clint says plainly, vulnerable._

_ "I know," Barney softens, patting Clint's shoulder. "It's gonna suck, but we'll make it manageable. Take these," Barney instructs, passing over three ibuprofen and a bottle of water. Clint's stomach twists at the very notion of ingesting anything, but he complies. "Good. Now two of these," he continues, popping the lid on a bottle of Fire Extinguisher and doling out two blue pills. "They work better if you start takin' 'em three days before your heat's supposed to start, but they should still keep you from gettin' too wild." _

_ Clint swallows them down._

_ "Good," Barney turn to fiddle with alarm clock next to the bed. "That'll go off in six hours, which is when I expect you to take another dose of both of those. If the pain gets too bad in the meantime you can stagger it with these in three hours." Barney punctuates this statement by rattling two different bottles at him. One is Tylenol and the other is Heat Douser. "There's food in the cabinet and more water, but you probably won't be hungry for a while. I'll lock you in and stay close by to make sure nobody bothers you."_

_ "Thanks." Clint lays back and shudders, rolling the water bottle against his head to try and cool himself down. _

_ "No problem." Barney claps a hand over his knee before heading for the door. "Give that medicine thirty minutes to kick in and you'll start to feel more in control, I promise."_

_ "Alright," Clint responds, hysteria already bubbling up again._

_ "You're gonna be fine," Barney tells him, both irritated and full of affection. "Just holler if you need me. I'll come runnin'."_

_ "I know you will, Barney." _

_ *_

_ He aches._

_ *_

_ He yearns._

_ * _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what Bucky says when Clint can't hear him this is what I figured:
> 
> 1st time: Hey Clint, everything alright?
> 
> 2nd time: Steve look at him, he's scared out of his goddamn mind.


	4. The First Time (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Non-consenusal biting happens in this chapter. There's also an age difference here because Clint is eighteen and Bucky is however old he is at this point. 
> 
> Also straight up murder.
> 
> Also also, not beta read, because we die like men.

T_wo days later, when Clint finally cools off enough that Barney deems him fit for public, they walk across the fairgrounds to the KOA on the other side of the highway. The man that runs the place almost doesn't let them use the showers on account of them being carnies, but Barney manages to sweet talk him into it. It's always funny to watch Barney flirt his way into getting what he wants when Clint knows for a fact he'd rather just deck the guy and get it over with. _

_ Barney comes back twirling the shower key and positively beaming. Clint can't help but roll his eyes. Maybe he's still a little grouchy from the last two days of hell, sue him. _

_ "I just got us free reign over these here showers for the entirety of our stay here in the lovely city of Tallahassee," Barney tells him, sounding very much like he thinks Clint ought to be impressed. "So quit cuttin' them eyes at me, baby brother, or I might be disinclined to share." But in the same breath he's tossing the keys his way, so Clint figures he doesn't actually mean it. _

_ Clint goes to wash up and Barney leaves him to it. Once he finally starts to feel a little more human and a lot less like a swamp monster, Clint makes his way back to their caravan. _

(And that's exactly what it is. Not an airstream, not a camper, but an honest to God, hand on the Bible, gypsy style caravan. Barney had sold a heat to buy it and then sold another one four months down the line to get it fixed up. Clint asked him about it once, pausing from painting vines against the frankly alarming teal paneling to ask, "Why a caravan?"

Barney, who had been stenciling sunny daisies across the baseboards, just looked up at him and answered, "Why the fuck not?")

_ By the time Clint gets back inside and his shoes kicked off Barney has the sheets changed and is frowning into the laundry hamper. _

_ "These weren't that dirty," Barney says, no preamble. _

_ "Um, alright?" _

_ "You startin' to smell anything yet?" Barney asks, just as abruptly. _

_ Clint sniffs the air before pursing his lips. "I don't know," he mumbles, but it sounds like a question. _

_ "Come try." _

_ Clint's not sure on the etiquette here, seeing as three days ago he was beta and didn't have to worry over this sort of thing, but he steps up into his brother's space anyways. Barney's got his head tilted to the side in an offering and Clint leans closer for a whiff. _

_ "It smells like I know you," Clint starts, nose wrinkling. "Is that because we're both omegas or because we're family?" _

_ "Dunno, it's your nose." Barney's smiling, his eyes crinkling into happy half moons. "What else?" _

_ Clint tries again, inhaling slow before blowing it back out. "It doesn't make sense." _

_ "Smell like something what don't normally have a smell?" _

_ "Yeah, exactly," Clint says, simultaneously relieved and frustrated. "That normal?" _

_ Barney shrugs. "Some people are like that. Mama smelled like a sunbeam," he says, voice soft. _

_ "What the hell does a sunbeam smell like?" _

_ "Like her," Barney says, like it's obvious. "Like summer." _

_ "Well, you smell fuckin' fancy," Clint accuses and Barney laughs at him. "Like diamonds, I think?" _

_ "So I've been told. Always nice to have an unbiased opinion though." _

_ "What do I smell like?" Clint asks, endlessly curious all of a sudden. _

_ Barney pulls a face, jaw flexing as he sways into Clint to try and catch his scent. He makes a small, irritated noise in the back of his throat before switching sides and nosing around Clint's pulse point. When he pulls back, Barney looks stumped. _

_ And that's when Clint starts to piece together that there's something not quite right about him. _

_ "I can't smell you," Barney whispers, like if he says it quiet enough it'll all come together. "I couldn't smell you when you were heating up, either. This place should reek with how you were couped up in it, but I can't smell a damn thing." _

_ "That's not normal, is it?" Clint asks, even though he already knows the answer. _

_ "Maybe you just need a couple more days," Barney says, but he doesn't sound so sure. _

_ "Let's look at the facts," Clint snaps, and he realizes he's angry. At who or what, he isn't certain. "I'm a late bloomer, I apparently don't get the sheets wet enough when I go hot, and I don't smell like anything," Clint rattles off viciously. "Anything else?" _

_ "Heats usually last a day or two longer than what yours did," Barney adds, because he's fucking unhelpful. "Could just be 'cause it's your first time and your cycle ain't lined out yet." _

_ "That's great." He sounds unhinged. "Pretty sure that means I'm broken." _

_ "You ain't broke, Clint." _

_ "All signs point to otherwise." _

_ "Give it a minute, Clint. Even if it turns out you run a little different, it don't make you broke." _

_ "Yeah, okay, but it still means there's something wrong with me." Clint's on the precipice of something and he's struggling to keep hold of the ledge. Everything that's been building, every emotion that he's shoved back to deal with at a later date is threatening to send him over the edge. _

_ "Ain't nothin' wrong with you," Barney says stubbornly. "I'll prove it to you." _

_ So Barney sets off, yanking open drawer after drawer in their too small caravan until he finds what he's looking for, two ancient quilts that they only bust out when the weather turns cold. He stalks over to bed and starts to tie them to the curtain rods without a word, forming a makeshift roof over the bed. Barney is like Harold in the way he responds to something he can’t fix with barely contained rage. _   
  
_ How he’s different is that instead of resorting to beating on people, Barney utilizes overly aggressive mother henning as a coping mechanism. _   
  
_ “What’re you doing?” Clint asks, more than a little leary. _   
  
_ “I’m makin’ a den,” Barney gripes, tying the quilt off with more gusto than strictly necessary. “I’ll be the fuckin’ mom, or whatever. Now c’mere.” Barney makes a grab at Clint’s shoulder and hauls him in. “You cool with that?” _   
  
_ “Alright?” _   
  
_ “We both have to be in complete agreeance or it won’t work.” _   
  
_ “...huh?” _   
  
_ “I swear you’re tryin’ to be contrary. You’re such a mule, Clint.” Barney stops and takes a breath to refocus. “Are you cool with me bein' the den mother?” _   
_  
It sounds so silly that Clint can’t choke back his laugh in time. “Alright, Barney,” Clint says, aiming for serious and missing by a mile. “You can be the fuckin’ mom.”_

_ "Twerp," Barney grumbles, but he still pulls Clint in for a bear hug. "Take a couple deep breaths. Lemme know if you start to feel different." _

_ Clint complies and sure enough he does start to feel different. With every exhale Clint's breathing out all of the fear and anxiety and with every inhale he feels a little more safe. It's all accompanied by a weightlessness, a sense of no longer being a corporeal being that is sort of disconcerting. _

_ "Woah," Clint says, wobbly as Barney pushes him onto the bed. "I don't know if I like this." _

_ "Weird, right?" Barney agrees, settling down next to him. They're laying side by side, staring up at the blanket canopy with their arms almost touching. _

_ "I feel like I'm gonna float away if I don't hold on to something." _

_ "Here." Barney reaches out and threads their fingers together. "Better?" _

_ "Yeah, thanks." Clint gives his brother's hand a squeeze. "I think I like it? It's vulnerable, but in a nice way." _

_ "Don't know if there is such a thing, but I catch your meanin'. It's kinda like a good bite." _

_ Clint's hand comes up on its own accord, tracing the skin above the neck of his t-shirt where he knows the scar sticks out. It's healed well enough and isn't even raised. It's hardly noticeable at all in the winter when he's paler, but in the summer months the white outline stands in sharp relief against his tan skin. _

_ "Don't know if there is such a thing," Clint echos softly. _

_ "There is," Barney assures and Clint snorts in answer. "I'm serious, Clint. It can be nice if you want it." Barney stops to elbow him. "It can be all kinds of nice when you're burnin' up." _

_ "Ew! I do not need to hear about your gross, kinky sex life." _

_ "Eh, biting during heat is pretty vanilla." _

_ "Barney, I don't care how relaxing this is, if you keep at it I'm gonna leave." _

_ "Sure you are, Clint." _

_ He sounds like he's barely holding back a full on laughing spell and Clint realizes he's got Barney's arm clutched to his chest like a teddy bear. "The hell…?" _

_ "I wasn't gonna draw attention to it, but yeah, your doin' a good impression of a koala." _

_ "This is surreal," Clint says, but he makes no move to relinquish his brother's arm. "Does it still feel like this when you're then den mother?" _

_ "Nah, it's different. When you're the den mom you get real protective, so you don't go all loopy and relaxed. You also feel...satisfied, I guess? I ain't ever had no babies before, but I reckon it's kinda like the feeling you'd get if your kids did somethin' that made you proud of 'em." _

_ Barney goes quiet and Clint can tell by the way he's gnawing at his lip that something is bothering him. "What is it, Barney?" _

_ "It ain't like that now. I feel normal," Barney admits. "I can see that the nesting hormones are workin' on you 'cause you're way more clingy than usual and your pupils are wider than backhoe tires, but I don't feel anything at all." _

_ "Oh," Clint says, and it sounds small even to him. "Maybe I'm not triggering any hormones because you can't smell me." _

_ "Maybe." _

_ "So I really am broke." It doesn't sound as scary, here in the safety of the den, knowing that his brother is keeping watch. _

_ "Not broke," Barney grumbles, turning on his side so he's facing him. Clint mirrors the position, keeping Barney's arm hugged to his chest. "But we might should see about takin' you to a doctor." _

_ "With what money?" _

_ Barney purses his lips. "Don't worry about that, baby brother, I'll get it figured out." _

_ They lay together for a long time in companionable silence before curiosity gets the better of him and Clint asks, "What'd dad smell like?" _

_ "Dad," Barney pauses before adding, "May he burn in hell." _

_ "May he burn in hell," Clint repeats dutifully. _

_ "He smelled like a house on fire," Barney tells him, his smile all wrong. "When he was happy it smelt like someone was toastin' marshmallows." He swallows thickly and Clint holds his arm that much tighter. "And when he was mad it smelt like he was burning everything you'd ever loved." _

_ The silence yawns on for too long and Clint can't help but blurt out, "If ever there was a man who deserved to be murdered in cold blood, it was him." _

_ "A-fuckin'-men," Barney agrees, wholeheartedly. _

_ * _

_ At some point Clint must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up to Barney gently shaking his shoulder. Everything’s quiet and Clint didn’t realize Barney had taken his hearing aids out until his brother is gently hooking them back over his ears. "Hey Clint, I've gotta go." Clint grumbles something nonsensical and pulls the blankets tighter around himself. Barney chuckles. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. You gonna be alright?" _

_ "M'fine," Clint tells him, half asleep. _

_ "Okay," Barney agrees, ruffling his hair. "I'll lock you in. Sleep tight, twerp." _

_ Clint dozes for a while longer but is eventually woken up by his stomach's residual cramping. He groans, reaching under his shirt to press a fist into his belly. The counterpressure helps and soon enough the pain passes, but with it Clint realizes that his underwear is damp again. _

_ "Sick," Clint complains to the empty room, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes before glancing at the clock. 12:38 am. Was that too late to take a shower? _

_ Clint doesn't waste much time debating it before he's up, shoving his shoes on, and rummaging for a clean set of clothes to stuff into his duffle bag. He grabs his brother’s bowie knife and clips it to the top of his jeans before heading out the door. Better safe than sorry. _   
  
_ He’s glad for it when his stroll through the KOA is interrupted by a loud BANG and the winnebago next to him lists dangerously to one side. Clint scrambles back, but after teetering precariously the camper manages to right itself at the last second. "The hell...?" Clint whispers, his train of thought derailed as a middle aged man is bodily thrown through the RV's front door. Clint stares in shock before flicking his eyes back towards the open door._

_ A man stands in the doorway, backlit by the lights inside. He is wearing all black and has an arm that gleams in the moonlight. _

_ The shadow is back. _

_ The middle aged man on the ground yells something in a language Clint doesn't understand and pulls a handgun from his waistband. Clint doesn't even think about it, just pulls his knife free and lobs it at the gun's barrel to dislodge it from the man's grip. The shadow uses the opening to press his advantage and closes in on his target, stalking forward and grabbing the now babbling middle aged man around his neck. Clint ducks his head to avoid seeing it but can do nothing to dull the sickening crunch as the shadow snaps his neck. _

_ "Oh God," Clint warbles, overwhelmed with nausea. He barely gets a moment to look up before he's thrown against the side of the camper and pinned down by an unforgiving metal hand against his throat. _

_ "Why did you do that?" The shadow growls, hitching Clint higher until he's up on his tiptoes. Clint's heart is racing in double time as he scrambles for purchase, his vision darkening around the edges as his air supply is steady choked off. He's on the verge of losing consciousness when the shadow drops him in a heap at his feet. Clint retches, chest heaving as he gasps for air. _

_ "Why did you do that?" The shadow repeats, running thin on patience. _

_ "Because you helped me," Clint manages to croak, voice rough as he looks up at the shadow. "You helped me before and I didn't want him to hurt you." _

_ The shadow cocks his head at that, dark hair falling in his eyes as he considers the blond at his feet. Clint can tell by the light of the security lamp that they're a piercing shade of stone blue. "Have we met?" The shadow asks, hesitant in a way that Clint doesn't expect. _

_ "Yeah," Clint swallows, trying to soothe his aching throat. "Yeah, of course we have. You might not remember me because I was smaller then, but you killed my dad." _

_ The shadow cocks his head even further to the side and Clint suddenly realizes exactly how fucked up that must have sounded. _

_"Oh don't worry, it was a good thing. Like a REALLY_ _good thing. Honestly, you did me a huge favor,” Clint reassures, and why is he working so hard to comfort a man who just snapped someone’s neck?__  
__  
__Speaking of, Clint’s eyes flick towards the corpse before they land back on the shadow. “Um, shouldn’t we do something about that?” It’s a wednesday in late September, so the KOA isn’t packed, but Clint can’t imagine leaving a dead body out in the parking lot is a great idea.__  
__  
__The shadow stares at Clint for a moment longer before grunting and going over to the dead man. He loops his arms under the corpse’s armpits and starts dragging him towards the camper. When he gets to the doorway he struggles up the stairs, his victim's head lolling bonelessly from side to side. Clint hesitates before making to grab the body’s feet, but the shadow interrupts him by hissing, “Stop!”__  
__  
__“Sorry,” Clint grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from doing anything else stupid. “You just looked like you could use a hand.”__  
__  
__“Fingerprints,” The shadow tells him and Clint is suddenly so, so happy that he interrupted him. “Don’t touch him,” The shadow warns, before continuing to drag the corpse inside.__  
__  
__Clint isn’t sure why he waits around other than maybe he has some kind of death wish, but the shadow comes back outside after not one, not two, but three ominous sounding thuds from inside the winnebago. Clint watches the other man come down the steps, his face and neck now covered in blood splatter.__  
__  
__“What happened in there?” Clint asks, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “He give you trouble or something?”__  
__  
__It’s not especially funny but the shadow snorts regardless. “Smashed his face in,” the shadow says with no infliction and wow, alright, this guy is one scary motherfucker. “It’ll take longer to identify the body that way.”__  
__  
__“Is the camper under his name?”_  
  
_“No,” The shadow answers. "You said you wanted to help?"_

_ "Yeah," Clint answers, licking at his bottom lip anxiously. _

_ "Put these on then," the shadow orders, tossing a pair of leather gloves his way. Clint practically trips all over himself in his attempt to comply. "Good." The shadow jerks his chin towards the door behind them. "Get in." _

_ And honestly, Clint's mama probably taught him better than this, but he figures she's not here and Clint's got a debt that needs paying, so he steps up into the winnebago and let's the shadow crowd in after him. _

_ "Je-sus," Clint hisses when his eyes land on the corpse that is currently draped over the bed. The face has indeed been caved in (not that Clint thought the shadow was a liar, but hearing and seeing are two different things, y'know?) and is now reduced to a cavern of gore. _

_ "Don't get sick." _

_ "I ain't gonna get sick." _

_ ...he might get sick. _

_ "I need you to hold his mouth open," the shadow tells him while sorting through a sleek crossbody bag at the foot of the bed. He pulls out a pair of pliers and a plastic ziploc. _

_ "Cool, cool," Clint answers, even though it's the opposite of cool. "You wanna tell me why though?" _

_ "Got to pull his teeth." The shadow punctuates the sentence by snapping the pliers at him menacingly. _

_ "Obviously." Clint tries for nonchalant but ends up squeaking instead. He clears his throat and attempts to recover by asking, "So how do you want me to do this?" _

_ "Behind him," the shadow says, gesturing to the bed. "So you won't be in my way." _

_ Clint thinks about saying no, but the shadow is standing between him and the way out, so he resigns himself to his fate. Clint clambers up onto the bed and slides in behind the dead man, pillowing his head on his thighs and reaching under his chin to press into hinges of his jaw and keep his mouth open. _

_ "Hold him still," the shadow tells him as he kneels down and gets to work. The gears in his metal arm make a whirring noise as he starts to pull a molar free. _

_ "That's nasty," Clint complains, grimacing as he holds the corpse's head steady so the shadow has something to pull against. The molar comes free with a pop and flecks of blood speckle Clint's hands. The shadow looks up to pin him with a glare, but it's got less animosity in it than before so it looks down right affectionate coming from him. "How were you gonna do it if I hadn't been around?" _

_ "I can do it myself," the shadow says, the pliers squelching around as he fishes out another tooth. He drops it into the plastic bag to join the molar. "But it is easier this way." _

_ "Glad I could help," Clint grins and it's the wrong thing to do because the shadow tugs an incisor free and somehow blood manages to ricochet onto his face. "Oh God, I got some in my mouth," Clint whines, stomach churning as he turns his head to wipe his face on his shoulder. _

_ The shadow laughs like it's been punched out of him. It takes them both by surprise. _

_ "Don't get sick," the shadow repeats after a moment of silence, then gets back to work liberating the dead man's teeth. _

_ "Just hurry up," Clint gripes back. The corner of the shadow's mouth ticks up, but Clint thinks maybe it was just a trick of the light because it's gone in a flash. _

_ It turns out tooth removals don't take that long when you've got a super powered metal arm to do the pulling and five minutes later the shadow has a ziploc with a full set of teeth. He goes to stash them in his bag and as Clint struggles out from under the corpse he notices another ziploc that appears to be filled with something that looks an awful lot like severed fingers. A quick check proves that yep, the dead guy is totally missing his. _

_ "When'd you do that?" _

_ "Before I did his face." The shadow waves a set of bolt cutters at him before dumping them back into the bag too. "Extraction isn't until morning. I need a place to stay out of sight until then." _

_ "Oh." Clint forces himself not to fidget. "Are you asking to stay with me?" _

_ "You still want to help?" the shadow counters, brow quirked. _

_ And honestly, Clint's probably done enough at this point for his debt to be considered paid in full. One dead father is equal to assisting in the murder and dismembering of a complete stranger, right? He doesn't really owe the shadow anything anymore. They should definitely go their separate ways. _

_ "Sure," Clint says with a slow smile. "I've got a place." _

_ * _

_ Clint makes them both shower first, because they're covered in blood and he's really not trying to track any of that back home. They take turns since it's a single stall and Clint goes first so the shadow can steal a new set of clothes from the campground. When the shadow gets out he's wearing brown corduroy pants, of all things, and a blue and white checkered button down. Both are about two sizes two big and combined with his damp hair and flushed, shower fresh face the shadow looks more adorable than menacing. _

_ "You should burn your bag," the shadow says as Clint fumbles with the key to the caravan. Clint glances down at his duffle bag and nods with a grimace. It's his only one, but he'll do it to avoid incriminating himself. "And the clothes too." _

_ "Burn it all, got it," Clint says while stepping over the threshold, the shadow right behind him. "So this is it. I know it's not a lot, but make yourself at home." _

_ The shadow doesn't move and when Clint looks back the other man is staring at the canopy of blankets over the bed. "What…," the shadow starts, hands flexing at his sides. "What is that?" _

_ "Oh." Clint feels himself flush and wishes he'd had the foresight to tear the thing before he'd left. "It's just a blanket fort now, but it was a den earlier." _

_ "A den," the shadow says, like he's testing the words. "What does it do?" _

_ Clint's ears are burning. "It's a thing omegas do with each other to calm down. Or just for fun." He picks at the hem of his shirt, a pale green thing that's so old the restaurant slogan that used to be scrawled across the chest has faded into obscurity. It's soft though, so he keeps wearing it. "Back in the day I think it was used for courting or something? If an omega was into an alpha they'd get their omega friends together, make a nest, and then invite the alpha to den up with them." _

_ "Which one was it for you?" the shadow asks, shifting his entire focus to the blond. The other man's stare is so intense that it has Clint looking away only seconds after meeting it. _

_ "Huh?" Clint says, articulate as always. _

_ "Did you need to calm down?" the shadow elaborates, looking vulnerable in his oversized clothes. "Or was it just for fun?" _

_ "Calm down." Clint sits on the edge of the bed so he doesn't squirm. "I'd just had my first heat and I was panicking. Just a little though!" Clint defends. "I wasn't hysterical or anything like that." _

_ The shadow scrunches his face up and if possible looks even more confused. "What's a heat?" he asks, sitting down closer to Clint than is strictly polite. Their thighs are squished together and between the question and all the body contact Clint's not sure where to begin. _

_ "You've never heard of a heat?" _

_ The shadow shakes his head and looks to Clint expectantly. _

_ "What's your secondary gender?" _

_ The shadow gives a tiny shrug, like he's never stopped to consider it. The guy's got to be Barney's age at least and he's never taken the time to figure out which way he presents? _

_ Weird, but seeing as how he moonlights as a serial killer it's certainly not the strangest thing about him. "I might be able to tell," Clint offers and the shadow seems to light up at the prospect. "Don't go getting your hopes up, I'm new to this whole smell thing, so I might not be able to figure it out." _

_ "How do we try?" _

_ "Here, let me just…," Clint trails off and brings a hand up, giving the shadow time to pull back if he wants to. He doesn't, so Clint curls his fingers around the back of his head, swiping his thumb curiously through the stubble on his jaw. It's scratchy. Clint tilts the shadow's head and shoots him one last questioning glance before pressing his nose into the crook of his neck. He sniffs searchingly before exhaling noisily against the other man’s collarbone. The shadow shudders, fingers twitching against the corduroy fabric covering his thighs. “You smell like...garden soil?” Clint tries, inhaling again. “And copper. I thought it was just blood from that guy earlier, but I think it’s you too. There's something else, I don't know what it is though," Clint hums, pressing closer-- _

_ He gasps, doubling over as another residual cramp ripples through his midsection. "Ah," he whimpers, folding his arms over his stomach protectively. _

_ "What's wrong?" The shadow asks, resting a careful hand against Clint's back, fingers running over the knobs of the blond's spine in a comforting gesture. _

_ "It's nothing. I guess I'm still getting over my heat." When the sensation passes Clint straightens up, but the shadow keeps his hand on the middle of his back, thumb brushing lazily over the cotton of his t-shirt. "I'm pretty sure you're an alpha though, 'cause your smell is making me lightheaded." _

_ "You still haven't explained what a heat is," the shadow points out, his hand feeling warm and large between Clint's shoulder blades. _

_ "Right," Clint laughs nervously. He can do this. He's eighteen years old for God's sake, he can talk about sex. "An omega has one about every four months. It's a time when they're fertile and they really want to," Clint stops to wave his hands in a vaguely pornographic gesture, "You know, do it." _

_ Yep. He's a grown up. _

_ "And that hurts you?" the shadow asks, frowning. "Why?" _

_ "I dunno, it's your biology trying to motivate you I guess," Clint fumbles, certain his face is fire engine red. "It just keeps hurting until enough time passes or you get an alpha to help you with it." _

_ "I can help you?" the shadow whispers, eyes wide. _

_ "What? No, not really, my heat's already--mph!!" He's interrupted by two hundred plus pounds of serial killer lunging for him and the only thing that stops Clint from pissing himself out of fear is the soft set of lips that crash into his. The shadow's tongue enthusiastically skims over the seam of his mouth and Clint can't help but moan, kissing back with fervor until he loses himself in the velvety slip and slide of their lips brushing together. _

_ It's not perfect. Their noses keep bumping and there's too much teeth. But it's still fucking fantastic. _

_ "Did I do it right?" The shadow asks, his words barely above a whisper and his breath hot against Clint's face. _

_ "I don't know. No one's ever seen fit to kiss me before," Clint admits, pressing his fingers against his lips. They're tingling and his heart is racing and he can't stop looking at the other man's mouth. It's all pink from Clint nipping at it. "You could do it again," Clint tells him, shy. "For practice." _

_ "Okay," the shadow says, pupils blown and looking wrecked. "For practice." _

_ Their excited scramble to come together ends with Clint's back hitting the mattress, the younger man giggling as the shadow plants lightening fast kisses on his nose, across the freckles of his cheekbones, against the corners of his mouth. The shadow gives him a bashful half smile that changes how his whole face looks and, oh, Clint realizes for the first time how devastating handsome the man above him really is. Clint reaches up to cup the shadow's cheek, thumb dragging feather light against the chin dimple he's trying to hide under two days worth of stubble. The shadow turns his face to press his lips into the palm of Clint's hand before leaning back in for more. _

_ They kiss until their lips are red and swollen, like that's all they know how to do. The shadow shudders when Clint leaves imprints in the shape of crescent moons on his back and in retribution slips clever fingers under his shirt to trail them over the delicate skin of Clint's belly. Eventually they come apart, the shadow turning his head to break the line of saliva connecting their lips before dipping his head and nuzzling into Clint's neck, the rough drag of his bristles making the younger man tremble. _

_ Clint sighs when the shadow starts pressing kisses there as well and is too blissed out to do more than nod when the other man growls, "You smell so good," into his throat. But then he starts tracing the scar tissue peaking out over the neck of Clint's shirt with his teeth, lapping at it with a hot tongue and that cuts through the fog a bit. _

_ "Hey," he pants, trying to pull back but the way the shadow drags his fingernails over his hips has Clint arching up into the other man, thoughts momentarily derailed as he focuses solely on pressing them together as tightly as possible. Another nip to his neck has him paying attention again. "H-hey, wait, stop--," _

_ The bite is swift and oh so sweet. _

_ Clint gasps, every muscle tensing up before he goes completely boneless. "Oh," Clint whispers but it sounds so far away, like someone else is talking. The shadow bites down harder before swiping over the abused flesh with an apologetic tongue and Clint's eyes flutter closed of their own volition. He's aware that things are happening, that their legs are slotting together, that Clint's hands are fisting into the shadow's button down and clutching it tight, but he feels powerless to stop any of it. _

_ Clint knows on a visceral level that he's safe here, because the scariest thing for miles around is currently on top of him and he hasn't shown any signs of wanting to hurt him. Still, the fact that Clint couldn't stop him if he wanted to is what's freaking him out. Or it would, if thinking didn't seem like such a monumental undertaking. Clint knows it's an alarming situation, but anytime he tries to latch onto it the idea gets snatched away from him and replaced with waves upon waves of pleasure. _

_ The shadow doesn't take it too far, even though Clint couldn't hope to stop him at this point. He keeps his hands above the belt, petting over Clint's sides with careful touches and goes right back to kissing him. Clint's aware that he's kissing back, knows that he's licking and humming and trembling, but he's also lost to it, consumed completely by this feeling. _

_ And every time Clint starts to come back up, when he manages to break through to breathe out, "wait-wait," or push feebly against the body above him, the shadow leans back down to sink his teeth in once more and Clint gets lost all over again. _

_ It's perfect and it's a nightmare, all wrapped up in one. _

_ * _

_ Later, when Clint wakes up and the shadow is nowhere to be found, he covers his neck and cries and cries and cries. _

_ *_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! ♥️


	5. The Downfall of Barney Barton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hand wavey science during the scene on Clint's medical problems. I researched some, but it's hard to apply it to A/B/O stuff, so hopefully you get the jist of it!
> 
> Also still not beta read, so I apologise in advance for any places I flub up the grammar!

It’s been a week since the kitchen debacle and in that time Clint and Natasha have had breakfast with Bucky and Steve every morning. The first few days were rough, but they get easier the more used to it Clint becomes. It’s not half as difficult to be around Bucky now that he gets doused in Natasha’s cedar and promises scent on a regular basis.  
  
This morning Clint didn’t even jump when Bucky had leaned over him to refill his coffee mug so, y’know, winning.  
  
Tonight's different though, because Natasha has scheduled a movie night for just the three of them in her room. Clint shows up with his hair still dripping from the shower and a lilac Buc-ee's shirt he picked up a few years ago when he and Natasha had been passing through New Braunfels.

"Really?" Natasha asks, hip cocked and pressed against the counter. Behind her the microwave is emitting the tell-tale _ 'pop, pop' _that means she's already got a bag of popcorn going.

"Well. His name is Bucky and his name is Buc-ee," Clint says, gesturing to the beaver decal printed over his chest. "It seemed appropriate."

"He won't get the reference."

"Yeah, but _ I'll _ get it. That's why it's funny."

"You're a dork," she tells him, long suffering and fond. There's a knock on the door and Natasha abandons her position to go answer. The time between pops gets too long, so Clint rushes to rescue the popcorn before it burns, yanking the microwave door open and grabbing the bag. It's scorching hot, so Clint fumbles it from hand to hand in a one man game of hot potato until he can dump it onto the counter.

"Ow," Clint mumbles, popping a finger into his mouth to soothe the burn with his tongue. When he looks up he's go two ex Russian assassins looking at him with so much exasperation it hurts. "Hey," Clint says sheepishly, releasing his finger to give an awkward wave.

"Hey, Barton," Bucky responds, setting down a six pack. "I brought beer."

"Thanks," Clint says before his eyes even catch the Blue Moon label. "Oh hey, that's my favorite."

"I thought you might like it," Bucky says with a easy grin. "It's what you were drinking the last time we watched a movie together."

Huh. That was strangely thoughtful. Something warm and fuzzy unspools in Clint's chest. "Thanks," he says again, averting his eyes and scratching at his cheek. "Lemme just go grab the oranges."

Clint rummages around the fridge and when he gets done peeling oranges Natasha is already scenting Bucky and tucked up under his chin. She's wearing a shirt that's hanging low on one shoulder while Bucky's in one of Steve's shirts in an attempt to smell safe. The both look so soft and touchable that it's overwhelming, so Clint shifts focus to getting the popcorn in a bowl. 

"So what're we watching?" Bucky asks once he and Natasha have detangled from one another.

Clint says, "Miss Congeniality," at the exact moment Natasha hisses, "_ Not _Miss Congeniality."

"Aw, Tasha, no," Clint complains, giving her his very best puppy dog eyes. Natasha is unaffected. "He's never seen it and Gracie Hart is my soulmate!"

"Absolutely not. It'll be Kill Bill or it'll be nothing at all."

Well, Clint can't really argue with that. The Bride was definitely Natasha's soulmate. "I accept your terms," Clint says after pretending to consider it. He goes to sit on the couch but instead of the middle spot Natasha perched herself over on one of the edges. Clint hesitates, eyes darting from Bucky to Natasha then back to Bucky at a breakneck pace.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him challengingly.

"C'mon, puppy," Bucky says while snatching a beer. "Let's get your mouth watering."

It's such a stupid thing to say that Clint forgets to panic. "Yeah, okay," Clint agrees with a laugh, taking his seat in the middle of the couch. Bucky settles next to him, leaving plenty of space between them, and Natasha starts the movie.

It doesn't take long at all for Clint to remember to freak out though. Nancy Sinatra has barely finished crooning about how her baby shot her down and Clint's already got his shoulders screwed up as high as he can get them, eyes flitting over to Bucky every other minute to make sure he hasn't moved any closer.

They make it all the way to Uma Thurman stealing the Pussy Wagon before Natasha can't stand it any longer. "You're ruining my favorite movie with all your fretting," she accuses and it'd be mean if she wasn't saying in the same breath, "Come here, Clint."

Natasha tugs until she gets him sideways, Clint's head cushioned against her thighs. She cards a hand through his hair while covering his neck with the other one and the relief is instantaneous, a balm for his frayed nerves. Clint sighs and melts into her touch, eyes fluttering shut to better bask in the safety of it.

"Hey," Bucky says and Clint opens an eye to squint at him. He reaches out and catches Clint's foot in a gentle hold, pulling on it until he gets it into his lap. It's very reminiscent of what Natasha had just done. Clint wonders if it's a Russian thing as he lets Bucky arrange his other foot against his thighs as well. "This alright?"

"S'fine," Clint says and he's rewarded with a crooked smile that makes him feel warm all over.

They stay like that, Natasha petting him while Bucky mindlessly runs his thumb back and forth over the jut of his ankle and it's so nice Clint can't help but fall asleep.

*

"Where's Tasha?" Are the first words out of Clint's mouth when he comes to and realizes his pillow has abandoned him.

"Bathroom," Bucky informs, giving Clint's foot a squeeze before going back to lightly tracing the arch of his foot with a metal finger. The ghost of a touch has Clint squirming and biting his lip to hold back a laugh.

"Ticklish?" Bucky asks, grin turning fiendish as he trails an even lighter touch over the underside of his toes.

"Yes and I will absolutely kick you in the face if you don't knock it off," Clint hiccups between barely suppressed giggles.

"You got it," Bucky says, tone kind and not the least bit facetious. He gives Clint a parting pat before letting him go.

"This is coming along nicely," Natasha interrupts, lounging in the doorway with her mouth quirked up.

"You think so?" Clint asks.

"A month ago you'd have had a mental breakdown with him being that close to you. Five months ago you'd have burned the whole tower down trying to get away from him," she tells him and okay, fair point. 

"I better go," Bucky cuts in before Clint can dwell on anything long enough to turn somber. "Steve's 'prolly waiting and pacing up a storm."

Natasha gives him a hug and he's almost out the door when Clint calls out, "Hold on a sec." Bucky stops, eyebrows raised as Clint gets up to jog over to him. "You forgot something." 

Before Clint can talk himself out of it he catches Bucky in a hug of his own. Clint holds tight as Bucky freezes, but right as he starts to think that maybe he'd overstepped his bounds Bucky wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer.

There's grave dirt here, as well as blood and gunsmoke, but it's layered under faded bergamot and sweet promises, so it's okay.

"Thanks again," Clint says when they finally come apart.

"What for?" 

"For trying, I guess. And being so patient."

"It's not any trouble," Bucky says and Clint can tell he means it. "I don't mind at all, Clint, honest. Whatever it takes."

And Clint's not going to analyze that because something's been growing in his chest this past week and he's not trying to give it any more fodder. "Well, thanks all the same."

"No worries." Bucky fidgets, tugs at his ear, then says, "So, I wouldn't mind watchin' that movie with you. The one with your soulmate or whatever."

"Miss Congeniality?" Clint supplies helpfully.

"Mmhmm," Bucky agrees and finally stops fiddling with his ear. "I'm free tomorrow, if you wanted to come over? Steve'll be there too."

"Yeah," Clint says and that thing in his chest that he's trying not to feed blooms that much bigger. "Sounds like a plan, Bucky."

*

_ It's only been two months since his first heat and Barney had made good on his promise to get Clint to a doctor. The circus is performing in all the suburbs surrounding Houston, so they'd had time to have testing done downtown and come back for the results a couple of weeks later. An MRI, some blood tests, and one very uncomfortable pelvic exam later and here he was, alone and cold in an exam room while waiting for the doctor to come explain exactly what the fuck was wrong with him. _

_ At least Barney had stayed in the waiting room. Clint didn't want any witnesses for this particular moment in his life. _

_ Clint glances at the clock for the third time in as many minutes when Dr. Abara finally comes through the door. "Hello Mr. Barton," she says with a warm smile and a clipboard tucked up under her arm. She's got the biggest pair of doe eyes Clint's ever seen and the way she has her hair tucked away under a pale blue headwrap makes them that much more noticeable. "I trust you're feeling well today?" _

_ "Yes ma'am," Clint answers, using his best manners. _

_ "Excellent. Well then let's get down to business, shall we?" She flips his folder open and Clint holds his breath. "The blood tests came back saying you've got hyperprolactinemia, which is just a big word that means you're making too much prolactin. Most commonly this is caused by benign tumors on your pituitary gland." _

_ Clint's exhale is shaky. Are benign tumors the okay ones or the bad ones? _

_ Dr. Abara must sense his stress because she pats his knee reassuringly. "But the MRI showed no such thing. I'm fairly sure an underactive thyroid is to blame, but we'll need further testing to be certain." _

_ Clint starts to bounce his foot. More testing means more money and he has no idea how they're going to pay for any of this in the first place. "So what's all that stuff mean for me?" _

_ "Well, your cycle will most likely be sporadic, and you'll probably experience some degree of dryness during intercourse. It can also affect your fertility, but with proper hormone treatment it can be very manageable." _

_ "That don't sound so bad," Clint admits, more than a little relieved. He'd been half convinced that he had some kind of incurable cancer or something when he'd come in today. So what, he just needs to use lube and can't get pregnant? Clint had already been prepared for both of those things when he was beta, so this development is really no skin off his back. _

_ "Not so bad at all, Mr. Barton," Dr. Abara agrees. _

_ "What about me not having any sort of smell? Is that a symptom too?" _

_ "Now that," she starts, galaxy eyes growing darker. "Is something else entirely. If you'll look here I've got the MRI scan of your scent gland. Yours is extremely underdeveloped for someone of your age. I have to ask, have you had any substantial injuries to this area?" _

_ "Um," Clint hesitates, frowning down at the printout. He doesn't want to ask and give away his lack of education, but he can't answer the question otherwise, so he bites the bullet. "That's somewhere in your neck?" _

_ "Yes Mr. Barton," Dr. Abara tells him, no judgement. "Right here, on your right side." She taps her own neck to demonstrate. _

_ "Oh. Yeah, my dad bit me back when I was, erm, six or seven, I think? Bled so much I needed a blood transfusion." _

_ "Do you still live with your father?" _

_ "No ma'am, he's dead now." _

_ "Well," she says with a small smile. "I'm very glad that your circumstances have changed, Mr. Barton." _

_ And wasn't that just about the nicest thing anyone has said to him all week? "You and me both, ma'am." _

_ "That explains the state of your scent gland. The trauma it sustained at such an early age has caused it to be stunted." _

_ "Alright," Clint says, voice quiet and eyes trained on the shiny tiles under his feet. _

_ "The MRI and blood tests shows that it is still producing low levels of pheremones, Mr. Barton." Dr. Abara gives his knee another pat before letting go. "It's likely that you do have a scent, but it is so miniscule that no one can smell it." _

_ "I got it." Clint swallows. "Thanks, doctor." _

_ They finish up the session with Clint promising to make a follow up appointment before he makes his way into the lobby. Barney is already propped up against the counter talking with the clerk when Clint gets close enough to hear her give a total that is just north of ten grand. Clint feels nauseous but then he damn near swoons when Barney starts counting out thousand dollar bills like it's nothing. _

_ They barely make it five steps out the door before Clint's asking, "What the hell, Barney? Where'd you get that sort of cash?" _

_ "Don't worry about it, baby brother," Barney responds, scanning the nearby storefronts. "You hungry?" _

_ Clint's worrying about it. "C'mon, Barney, tell me." _

_ "I'm hungry," Barney says instead of answering. "Come on, Clint, I think I saw a sign for barbacoa down the street." Barney's already halfway to the taco truck before Clint can protest, so he grumbles and trails off after him. _

_ The food is delicious, but it's sort of tragic how neither one of them realizes it's their last supper together until it's too late. _

_ * _

Another week goes by and Clint's lounging on the couch with Pepper while Sam tries to teach Bucky and Steve how to play the first Borderlands. The key word here is, 'tries,' because they can't even seem to get past the character selection screen.

"So you're Roland?" Steve asks Sam, brow furrowed like he's trying to figure out calculus equations.

"Cause he's black? Wow, Rogers," Sam says, but judging by his grin Clint figures he's just fucking with him.

Steve, to his credit, doesn't so much as bat an eyelash. "No, because he's a soldier."

"I'm picking this guy," Bucky interrupts, cursor hovering over Mordecai.

Clint snorts and Pepper swats his arm. "Stop moving!" She laughs, brown eyeliner pencil stilling so the lines don't go wobbly. 

"Sorry, it's just predictable. He picked the sniper," Clint tells her. "Keep going." Clint's got his shirt off and Pepper has one hand braced on his chest while the other one is playing connect the dots with the freckles over his heart. Right now it looks like...mountains, maybe? He'd done her's earlier as evidenced by the trio of misshaped stars on her shoulder.

Clint collected redheads like some people collect baseball cards, but that wasn't the only reason he liked Pepper. He adored her because she was vibrant, whip-smart, and a member of his very niche, _ 'Freckles and No Scent' _club.

They were an acquired taste, so they tended to stick together whenever they were around one another.

"You just picked him because you like his pet hawk," Sam teases, shit eating grin splitting his face.

"Shut up, Wilson," Bucky scowls, hunkering down further into his seat. He shoots Clint a glance before looking back at the flat screen just as fast.

Sam wrinkles his nose as Bucky's scent shifts to mostly gunsmoke. "Don't get pissy, Barnes, it was a joke." 

"Yeah? Well it ain't funny," Bucky grumbles. 

"See, this is why Clint's my favorite," Sam says, gesturing in Clint's general direction. "I never have to smell his bullshit."

Clint goes to give a shrug, but Pepper grabs his shoulder to stop him. The mountains are starting to look like something else. "Geez, you really know how to sweet talk a guy, Sam," Clint says, trying to stay still.

Steve's looking at them now with his eyebrows screwed together. "What do you mean you don't have to smell his bullshit?"

Sam looks incredulous. "Exactly what I said. I don't have to smell his bullshit because he doesn't have a smell. He's neutral, like a beta."

"But Clint does have a smell."

Clint's head jerks up at the same time Bucky growls out, _ "Steve." _

"No, he doesn't," Sam protests.

"Yes, he does," Steve argues right back.

Clint gives Pepper, who has stopped doodling for the moment, a questioning look. She shrugs in answer. "You don't smell like anything to me."

"Can I scent you, Barton?" Sam asks, as if to prove a point.

Clint blinks rapidly before replying, "Knock yourself out, I guess?"

Pepper moves and Clint tilts his head invitingly, letting Sam settle a big hand on his shoulder and snuffle around the hollow of his throat. The other man smells like alpha and thunderstorms, which is both lovely and wild, so Clint doesn't mind getting doused in it. Clint stutters out a laugh when Sam's huffing starts to tickle.

Bucky scowls even deeper.

"I've got nothing," Sam says as he gives Clint's shoulder a squeeze and pulls back. "He's neutral."

"Is your nose broke or something?" Steve's eyebrows are flirting with his hairline. "He's definitely got a smell."

"What do I smell like?" Clint asks, because the curiosity is killing him.

Bucky shoves himself up with enough violence that Clint can't repress the flinch. "I gotta take a leak," Bucky grumbles before stalking towards the stairwell.

"What crawled up his ass and died?" Sam grumbles.

An awkward silence falls over the room and for a long time no one breaks it. Eventually Steve says, "I'd better go check on him," in true worrywart fashion before chasing after Bucky and avoiding Clint's question completely.

"Hey," Pepper says, tapping the eyeliner against his left pec and stopping him from stewing. "Check it out."

Clint squints. "What is it?"

"Can't you tell?" She asks, coral lipstick making her smile more brilliant somehow. "It's a bunny!"

Clint takes in the wonky design and forgets all about Bucky and Steve walking out on them. "Yeah," he says, grinning back with equal brilliance. "I can see it now."

*

_ Clint figures out how Barney got all that money a little later that night. _

_ Apparently Jacques and Barney had been stealing from the show's profits but Trickshot was starting to get suspicious. So Jacques decided the only logical solution was to pin the whole thing on the Barton boys. The problem with that was said Barton boys weren't keen on it, so Jacques had to get creative. _

_ Which is how they ended up here, in an abandoned grain silo outside of Houston, with multiple stab wounds and nowhere left to run. _

_ "Barney," Clint says, every inhale an agony. He presses tight to his stomach where Jacques's sword rended it to shreds. The blood keeps coming anyways, slick and gushing between his fingers. "Barney, I've got to try." _

_ "Don't," Barney pleads with red frothing from his mouth. "Don't. I'm already gone." _

_ "I've got to try," Clint says again, even though he knows it's hopeless. Every breath Barney takes is wretched and wet. _

_ "Please," Barney begs and Clint's eyes go hot. "Please don't leave me." _

_ "Okay." Tears are rolling down his face when Clint runs unsteady fingers through the auburn hair under his hands. "It's okay, Barney. I ain't about to leave you behind." _

_ Barney tries to say something, but blood comes out instead. Clint holds him and keeps petting his hair until he stops breathing. _

_ * _

_ Clint makes it to the highway and flags down an eighteen wheeler. By the time the ambulance gets there he's already passed out from blood loss. _

_ * _

_ When he wakes from his coma three weeks later with insurmountable debt and one less brother, Clint stares up at the ceiling and doesn't cry at all. _

_ * _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my theory on why Clint collects redheads is because he misses his brother. You're welcome! 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the beautiful comments and feedback y'all have given me, I really do appreciate it. ♥️


	6. The Night We Set Peru On Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: In the first part of this chapter, with the regular text, there is a fleeting mention of dub-con between Natasha and Bucky from their time in the Red Room. It's very brief, but if that squicks you out then don't read this.
> 
> In the italics part there is murder and Bucky is REALLY not nice to Clint. There is non-con biting. Please, please do not read this if a character being out of control of a situation will be triggering for you.
> 
> Also not beta read because I'm still a one man outfit, but if anyone wants to, please let me know!
> 
> Also, also, should I just go ahead and tag this as dark? I try and make sure we get a decent amount of fluff too, but IDK anymore brosephines.

The common floor is eerily quiet three days later when Clint wanders down, its sole occupant staring forlornly into his coco puffs. "Hey Buck," Clint says, caffeinated, chipper, and in search of poptarts. "How was your run?"

Bucky shoots him a half smile before glaring back at his cereal. "Didn't go." His next spoonful is massive enough that his cheeks puff out comically. "Steve's busy," he tells Clint between crunches.

Too busy for Bucky? That doesn't sound like Steve Rogers at all. Clint catches a whiff of blood as he rifles through the pantry, but it doesn't so much as dull his appetite anymore. Natasha really is a genius. "What's he got going on?" Clint asks as he hops onto the counter next to Bucky, his legs swishing back and forth while he takes a bite of poptart. Mmmm. Blueberry.

"Helping Natalia and Bruce." Bucky stuffs another spoonful into his mouth and chomps at it aggressively.

"With what?"

Bucky's ears turn pink. "Natalia is starting her cycle."  
  
“Ah.” Clint swipes his tongue over the corner of his mouth, chasing crumbs. “Lucky guy. Still doesn’t explain why you didn’t go on a run by yourself though.”  
  
Bucky tips his bowl back and swallows the last of the sugary milk. He’s sporting a pretty adorable milk mustache now. “Can’t. I’m not cleared to leave the tower without an avenger escort.”

Clint is caught off guard by that, but now that he thinks about it he's never seen Bucky leave without Steve, Sam, or Natasha in tow. "I'm sorry," Clint says and is surprised by how much he means it. "You could hit the gym if you wanted?"

Bucky taps his spoon against the bowl idly before saying, "It's only one floor up from Steve's." The tapping comes quicker now, the little, _ 'Ting, Ting, Tings,' _getting progressively louder. "I can still smell her."

Clint blinks, because _ what? _ "You can still smell her from a floor away?"

"I can still smell her now and I'm as far away as I can get."

"Fuck," Clint says to himself, which is apparently the wrong choice of verbage because Bucky visably recoils. "You gonna be alright?"

"I can keep it in my pants." Bucky stops clanging his spoon against the bowl. "But," he pauses, rolling the spoon through metal fingers. "I started to remember--,"

Clint stops breathing.

"--the Red Room had me take care of the girls whenever they'd go into heat."

Clint exhales, relieved that that's what Bucky remembered, but then feels like a grade A asshole, because that right there? That must be an awful memory. Bucky won't look at him, he smells like wet earth again, and Clint hasn't got a clue what to say to make it any better.

So he goes with distraction. It's an old standby.

"Come on, up you go," Clint says, hopping off the counter and manhandling Bucky until he gets him on his feet. Clint yanks the hem of his shirt up and uses it to wipe off Bucky's milk mustache.

Bucky looks like a rabbit in the headlights. Perfect.

"Where's your shoes?" Clint mumbles, before locating said shoes and dropping to his knees to grab them.

"What are you doing?" Bucky asks and when Clint looks up he tracks how his throat is working, like he keeps swallowing. Weird. 

"I'm busting you out of this joint. Now gimme your foot, Cinderella."

"I can put my own shoes on," but he laughs and let's Clint help him into his tennis shoes anyways.

"Sure you can," Clint says with a wink before bouncing to his feet. "Now come on, let's go on that run. I could use some fresh air."

*

Running with Bucky turns out to be a horrendous idea.

"You're deranged," Clint says thirteen miles later, when they finally stop. "A psychopath." Clint flops down on the grass. He uses the bottom of his shirt to mop up the sweat on his brow and then leaves it rucked up because it's fucking hot out here and he's dying. "A madman."

For his part Bucky isn't even winded, just flushed ever so slightly and _ glistening _like a damned fitness model. God, Clint hates super soldiers. "Natalia's right," Bucky says with a cheeky grin. "You really are pitiful."

"I'm in good shape," Clint defends, but he's so out of breath it's not helping his case. "I just don't run thirteen miles a day like a lunatic."

"Uh-huh," Bucky hums, smirking when he stretches his arms over his head. Clint catches sight of sharp hip bones when Bucky's shirt rides up and abruptly shifts focus to literally anything else.

"Go get me a popsicle," Clint demands when his eyes land on the ice cream cart by the fountains. Bucky gives him an unimpressed look. "You just tried to kill me with unnecessary amounts of running, it’s the least you could do."  
  
Bucky must see the logic in that because he leaves Clint to lie on the grass and melt in peace.  
  
Time passes and he is almost lulled to sleep by the shade of the tree when Bucky comes back and plops down next to him. “Here,” he says, holding a cherry popsicle between metal fingers. Clint snatches it out of Bucky’s hand and makes a sound of pure bliss when he finally gets his mouth around the tasty treat.  
  
Bucky does not look at him.  
  
“Can I ask you a question about dynamics?” Bucky says eventually, voice rough.  
  
“Fire away, cowboy,” Clint answers after pulling off the popsicle with a wet pop. He licks at his lips to chase away the sticky residue.  
  
Bucky swallows loudly. It sounds painful. “When someone says they’re helping someone with their heat or rut does that just mean they’re,” Bucky stops to itch his nose, "Y'know, doin' it?"  
  
It’s so reminiscent of their time together in the caravan that Clint can't help but chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Bucky grumbles, but the way his mouth quirks lets Clint know he’s not upset.  
  
“Sorry, sorry.” He’s not. “Helping doesn't always mean bangin'," Clint says and Bucky tilts his head. "The first time I met Natasha she was burning up. I helped her through it, no sex required."

(_He's out of breath and she is too, on her belly and pinned down under his weight. Her red hair is soaked but she's still calmer than she has any right to be with her heat scent pouring out like that. _

_ She's lovely and smells so sweet. Clint knows better than to be fooled. _

_ "They thought you'd be alpha," she tells him, turning her head to affix him with an emerald stare. _

_ "That why they did this to you?" Clint asks, not easing any pressure off where he's got her hands wrenched between them. From this angle he can see the track marks from the Heat Starter on the inside of her arm. He wonders how many times they'd done this to her, forced her to burn to make it that much easier to slip a blade between unsuspecting ribs. _ _  
_

_ She doesn't answer, only watches with sharp eyes. _

_ Clint grins, tastes blood from when she'd split his lip. "Seems awful mean. How about a little revenge, Widow?" _

_ When she finally smiles back, it's all teeth.) _

"...but," Clint continues once he shakes free of the memory, "Steve's _ absolutely _ getting laid right now, 'cause Nat and Bruce have a theory. Speaking of, after the serum, did Cap's dic--,"

"I ain't talkin' about the size of Stevie's dick," Bucky says with a glare. "He's like my brother. That's gross."

"But it's for science!"

"Then you're gonna have to wait for Banner and Natalia to give you the final results," Bucky says, before nodding towards Clint's hand. "Better mind your popsicle, it's fixing to melt."

Sure enough sugary rivulets have started to meander down his arm. Clint licks a path to his wrist and flicks his tongue between his fingers to clean the red liquid that's pooled there too.

Bucky makes a sound like he's hurt. Maybe he has a cramp?

"Medical thinks it'd be a good idea for me to have a plan." When Clint gives him a blank look Bucky elaborates, "For if I go into a rut."

"If?"

Bucky shrugs. "There isn't a manual for how a Hydra Frankenstein alpha is supposed to work." Bucky doesn't look at him, attention focused squarely on where he's pulling up fistfuls of grass. "I was wonderin' if I could put you down as my medical assistance person."

Clint blinks. "Why not Nat?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I love Natalia, but after what they had us do in the Red Room, I'd rather not. Too much history there."

Clint thinks there's too much history between them too, but Bucky doesn't know that and Clint has nobody to blame but himself. "Steve?"

Bucky pulls a face. "Like I said, he's my brother." Bucky finally meets Clint's eyes. "We wouldn't have to do anything, you could just help me like you did with Natalia. Or you can say no. No big deal."

Clint watches the clouds drift by. "Let me sleep on it," he says before sliding the rest of his popsicle in his mouth and chomping it down in one go. Bucky chokes on his spit and Clint thumps his back. "C'mon, let's get back to the tower so I can whoop your ass at Mortal Kombat."

*

They spend the rest of the day playing XBox, eating an exorbitant amount of pizza, and doing just about anything Clint can think of to keep Bucky's mind off Natasha's heat. When midnight rolls around and he can hardly keep from yawning Clint starts to head upstairs, but Bucky looks so sad he can't bring himself to leave. In the end they make a pallet and sleep on the floor like a couple of kids at a slumber party.

Not that Clint's ever been to a slumber party, but still, he imagines they'd be a lot like this.

So when he wakes up and they're chest to chest, sharing breathes with their fingers intertwined, Clint understandably panics. He closes his eyes just as quickly as he'd opened them and takes a shaky breath, willing his heart to stop beating so fast. He's terrified that when he looks, he'll see that Bucky's been awake this whole time. His stomach is fluttering, a riot of butterflies, and Clint gives himself to the count of three before he makes himself be brave.

_ One. _

_ Two. _

_ Three. _

He opens his eyes and Bucky is staring right back, soft and sleepy and heartbreakingly beautiful.

"Shit, 'm sorry," Clint slurs, face hot and tongue heavy as he tries to free his hands.

But Bucky tightens his grip, winds their fingers that much closer. _ "Wait," _ Bucky says, mouth slow and purposeful so Clint can read it. _ "I like this." _ He squeezes Clint's hands. _ "You're always braiding someone's hair, or kissing Natalia's cheek, or drawing on Pepper." _ Clint's eyes stayed glued to Bucky's lips, because this feels important. He doesn't want to miss anything. _ "You're always touching someone." _

Bucky drags his thumb deliberately over the delicate skin of his wrist and Clint shivers, knows he can feel his pulse jumping. _ "I'm happy," _ Bucky says, lips curving unevenly, _ "That you trust me enough to touch me too." _

If that thing in Clint's chest gets any bigger he's afraid there won't be room for anything else.

But instead of ignoring it like he's been doing lately, Clint lets the feeling get away from him. He studies Bucky's eyelashes, how they're dark and longer than they have any right to be. Clint pays special attention to the laugh lines around his smile, the way Bucky's blue grey eyes seem like they can see straight to the core of him.

Most importantly, Clint breathes. It smells like garden soil, simple and innocent. Lying here, tangled up with Bucky in the early morning sunshine, Clint feels completely safe.

"Okay," he says, loudly judging by the way Bucky jumps. "Okay, I slept on it. You can put me down as your assist on those medical forms."

Bucky's answering smile is blinding.

*

_ Clint is twenty two when he first stands amongst the foothills of the Pachatusan mountain range. It's dark out, but the moon is full and there are so many stars that he can see the fog of his breath clear as day. _

_ He's here for a kill. _

_ It's not his first, that privaliage had gone to Jacques Duquesne, but he can count the folks he's murdered on one hand, so his assassin career is still in its infancy. He's careful about what contracts he takes, keeps them south of the equator and spread over several countries so it's harder to track him. This one came from a village that collectively scraped every bit of money they had to fund his fraudulent paperwork and plane ticket. _

_ It's not enough to be worth it, not by a long shot. But Clint figures they must need this guy dead real bad if they're willing to go to all this trouble. _

_ The man in question's name is Matias Alvarez, and he waits until the men leave to guide the tourists up the mountain before he steals their omega spouses and children. What happens to them afterwards is a mystery, but whatever it is ain't good and the police either don't care or he's bribed them to look the other way. His latest victim is Chirapa, a sixteen year old omega who hasn't been seen for days. _

_ Clint's been doing his best to track them, which is why he's bedded down behind a knoll in a meadow of dead grass, eyes trained on the lone shack at the base of the cliff face. He can tell it's been a long dry season because the plants are brittle and brown and crunch anytime he has to shift his weight. Clint's about a hundred and twenty meters out by his estimate, so he doesn't fret much over the noise. _

_ The door bangs open and Matias pulls a struggling girl with dark curls out into the night. Her hands are bound and she's screaming in Quechua, but Matias bears her no mind and there isn't anyone around for miles to hear her cries. Clint nocks an arrow and draws it back until the fletching tickles the corner of his mouth. He aims, exhales, and then hears the crunch of misplaced footfall behind him. He turns with every intention of loosing the arrow into the interloper's neck, but hesitates when he sees them. _

_ The man who is advancing on him is tall and dark, dressed in all black with a metal arm that gleams in the moonlight. _

_ The shadow is back and it throws Clint for such a loop that he isn't sure what to do. The shadow doesn't pause, plates of his metal arm shifting as he winds back for a punch. Clint comes to his senses fast enough to roll and the shadow connects with the hillside where his head had been a millisecond earlier. The crater he makes is monstrous, earth crumbling with the ease of a sand castle, and that wakes Clint right the fuck up. _

_ "Hey," Clint hisses, aiming for something non vital and releasing the arrow. The shadow catches it in his metal hand and snaps it with ease. "Hey, knock it off," Clint says, hushed and half begging. The shadow had saved him from his biggest monster once, covered him in soft kisses in the glow of his bedside light. They hadn't exactly ended things on the best of terms, but Clint has never wanted to hurt him. _

_ The shadow doesn't seem to share this sentiment and keeps coming, pulling a knife from his belt and swiping at Clint's chest. Clint stumbles back and tries to knock the other man's feet from under him, but the shadow gets his arm down to block it and damn near catches Clint's ankle with the move. _

_ "Cut it out," Clint tries again, but to no avail. He strikes with his knife and Clint grabs his wrist to immobilize him, but the shadow drops the weapon and catches it with his other hand, slashing the blade between them. The pain is sharp, instantaneous, and blooms somewhere close to Clint's hip. He gasps and manages to connect his next kick, putting some distance between them. The shadow yanks the bow from Clint's grip when he falls back, metal hand merciless as it snaps the weapon clean in two. _

_ And that _ ** _really_ ** _ pisses Clint off. _

_ "I said stop, goddammit!" Clint says, freeing the knife from his boot and throwing it with deadly precision. The blade buries itself clean up to the hilt in the connective tissue of the shadow's flesh and blood shoulder. Clint's sure that'll get the other man to back off or at least buy him a little time to beat a hasty retreat. _

_ What he's not expecting is for the shadow to pull the knife free and toss it to the ground without so much as breaking his stride. _

_ The punch to his gut is lightning fast and leaves Clint gasping. He takes a step back only for his feet to get tripped up and then he's falling, an ungraceful heap against the yellowed grass. The shadow takes his time, settles a knee on either side of Clint's hips while tossing the knife up and catching it lazily before making a show of twirling it around in a flourish. Clint might have considered it artful if he wasn't bracing for the worst. _

_ The shadow turns out to be a vindictive motherfucker and buries the blade in the exact spot Clint had hit him, the vulnerable join of his right shoulder. Clint yelps, his whole body jerking as he tries to get away, but the shadow ignores him and twists the knife until Clint is screaming underneath him. The shadow pulls his arm back and the mechanical buzzing of its inner workings sound like a death bell. Clint closes his eyes and prays for a swift end. _

_ But God's not there, or if they are they've never been on Clint's side. _

_ The wind shifts, the breeze brisk as it ruffles Clint's hair. A small eternity passes and when death never comes Clint opens his eyes to see the shadow staring back at him, nostrils flared. Clint squirms and that's the wrong thing to do because the shadow growls, taking Clint's wrists and pinning them over his head. The pain of the movement against the knife that's still embedded in his shoulder has Clint howling, black spots clouding his vision. _

_ The shadow's metal hand holds both of Clint's in a punishing grip while he uses the other to pry his chin up. Clint tries to jerk his head down so his neck isn't exposed, but it's no use, he can't do anything but shudder while the shadow buries his nose in his throat and breathes. His breath is hot where he exhales and the shadow's grip on Clint's chin softens, petting his jaw as he presses closer. _

_ Clint's pulse is thundering wildly when the other pulls back, the shadow's pupils so wide they black out the entirety of his irises. "Have we met?" the shadow asks, low and gravely. _

_ "Yes," Clint tells him, blinking back the blurriness in his vision. When had he started crying? "You killed my dad," Clint says. The shadow tilts his head and Clint adds, "You saved me from him." _

_ The shadow stays silent and thumbs at the tear tracks thoughtfully. When he trails a slow finger over his mouth Clint whispers, "You were the first person to kiss me." _

_ As soon as Clint says it the shadow presses their lips together, hurried and clumsy. Clint lets it happen, sobs when he feels the first brush of tongue against his. The shadow moves away, eyebrows drawn together like he's worried, which is fucking stupid because he was all set on murdering Clint not even two minutes ago. "What else?" He asks, still tracing his jawline. "What else have I done to you?" _

_ And Clint doesn't want to say it, can't say it, so he uses the knee he's been steady working loose and drives it into the shadow's groin as hard as he can. _

_ The shadow wheezes, grip faltering as he curls in on himself and Clint uses the opening to punch the other man in the side of the head. The shadow yells as he lists to the side and it's enough that Clint can scramble out from under him. He reaches for the knife in his shoulder, ignores every instinct that's screaming at him not to and pulls it out, aims for the shadow's neck and stabs. _

_ But that stupid, hateful metal arm stops him. _

_ The shadow grabs the blade of the knife and pulls the weapon from Clint's grip, crushes it like it's made of paper before tossing it over his shoulder. The shadow digs vicious fingers into the wound on his shoulder and Clint screams so loud he hurts his own ears. _

_ He ends up right where he started, on his back with his wrists pinned under a cruel metal hand. "What else did I do to you?" The shadow asks again, but Clint thinks he knows because he's tracing the white outline of his scar with plush lips. _

_ "Please," Clint begs, small. Broken. "Please don't." _

_ The shadow sinks his teeth in. _

_ It's so, so lovely. _

_ Clint gasps, the sound sweet as all the fight bleeds out of him, his body soft and yielding under the shadow's hands. He laps at where his teeth have been and Clint blearily thinks that he might have broken the skin this time. The shadow bites down again and Clint mewls, gets lost somewhere in the bliss. _

_ The shadow moves to peer down at Clint curiously. There's blood on his mouth and Clint thinks it should be scary, but for some reason he can't bring himself to worry about it right now. The shadow lets go of his hands and Clint leaves them where they are, blinks heavy eyes at the man above him and waits. _

_ The shadow swallows. Licks his lips. His pupils eclipse the rest of his eyes. "I want you," he starts, hesitant for the first time all night. "To stay where you are," he finishes, running gentle fingers through Clint's hair. _

_ Clint opens his mouth and tries to work it into the right shapes. It's a chore, but eventually he manages to get out a hushed, "Okay." _

_ The shadow nods, brushes a thumb over Clint's cheekbone. "Okay," he agrees as he gets up. "No moving until I come back." _

_ Clint nods. Then he's gone. _

_ Clint lies there, staring up at the sky while he tries to be as still as possible. Eventually, he seeks out the North Star. Barney told him once that it was the most important one, because it would always guide you home. _

_ But where is home? _

_ Does he have one? _

_ He used to think he'd lost it, but now Clint thinks his home is right here, on this ancient Peruvian mountain. Because that's where the shadow wants him to stay. _

_ It's a nice home, he thinks. Maybe if he's good enough he can keep it. _

_ He doesn't move and stays as quiet as he can manage. He aches in places but it's dull under the low thrum of serenity that's coursing through him. In the distance he hears shouting followed by a gunshot. The next voice is high, lilting Quechua broken up by desperate sobs and Clint thinks he should be upset, should be trying to do something, but he stays still like the shadow asked him to, even when the second gunshot rings out and the pleading goes silent. _

_ The wind picks up and it's frigid, but Clint tries to keep his shiver small. He's staying still. He's not moving. That's his job and he knows it's important. He continues to stare up at the night sky and pretends that he's fourteen again, laid out in a field in some backwater no-name town with Barney and they're racing to see who can name the most constellations. _

_ The great bear is the easiest, so he picks her out first. _

_ There is smoke in the air. Clint coughs as softly as he can manage. _

_ He finds Sagittarius next. It was a favorite of his growing up, loved how his arrow always pointed to the middle of their galaxy. _

_ He hears a crackling somewhere far off. What could it be? Does it matter? He's not moving, so it shouldn't matter. _

_ Next he seeks out Virgo. Remembers how for years after they'd planted her in the ground he would gaze at this particular set of stars and pretend it was mama, that she was still watching out for him and giving him more of those sweet half smiles that he loved so much. _

_ It's starting to get hotter now and the crackling even louder. It's harder to see the stars for all the smoke. _

_ Harder to breathe, too. _

_ Cygnus, the swan, and something's not right. Clint coughs, sputters loudly, less concerned with being still and more concerned about how the foothills are on fire all around him. He's choking on the smoke as he wills himself to move through the fog in his head. It's slow work and by the time Clint gets on hands and knees his eyes are stinging and he can't see very far in front of him at all. _

_ But then the shadow's there, a reassuring weight against his back, metal fingers stroking over his uninjured hip. "I told you not to move," the shadow says low against his ear. _

_ "I know," Clint responds, relieved to find that it's easier to speak. "But I had to try. There's a fire." _

_ "I know," the shadow echoes, breathing deeply against Clint's neck. "It's okay, I've got you. I won't let anything hurt you." _

_ But you hurt me, Clint thinks and can't bring himself to say. _

_ His arms are trembling. Everything's hazy, but Clint knows what's coming. "Wait." He tries to swallow the lump in his throat but can't. "I'll be good. I-I won't move, I swear. Please, don't--," _

_ There are teeth against his neck once more and everything else falls away. _

_ * _

_ When Clint comes to next he finds himself in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Cusco. He's all patched up and someone has left him a backpack full of supplies and water. He blinks, eyes trained on the hole in the ceiling before pawing at his neck until he finds the bandage there. _

_ Clint closes his eyes and wishes he'd never woken up at all. _

_ *_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long to get up! Thanks again for all the comments, kudos, and support, y'all really are the absolute best. ♥️


	7. The Rooftop in Mumbai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not beta read. Sorry about any typos!

When Bucky asks Clint to be the medical assist on his Alpha R-22 forms, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't hoping they'd get to use them someday. In fact, if Bucky stops bullshitting himself for more than five seconds he can admit that he _ wants _ to spend a not-so-platonic rut with Clint one day. Maybe a year or two down the road, when he's won him over and proven that he can be trusted.

It's a fantasy. Bucky's done enough bad in this lifetime that he'll honestly never be fit to sit in the same room as Clint, let alone share a rut with him.

But for reasons unknown to Bucky, Clint says yes. So after a lazy morning where Clint doesn't put his hearing aids in for a whole hour (which means he can't hear himself sigh happily with every other sip of coffee and therefore never notices the moon eyes Bucky's making at him. God, he's so stuck on this guy it's stupid), they sign the forms and give them to Pepper to get everything squared away.

And that's that. He doesn't think more about it.

Until one morning when Bucky wakes and everything is just...off.

It starts with him telling Steve to shove it when the time for their morning jog rolls around. It's been days since Natalia's cycle ended but her scent lingers. It's strongest on Steve and stronger still when he works up a sweat. No matter how much Steve showers the covenant and cedar chest smell won't wash off. 

Normally that wouldn't bother Bucky but today it sets his teeth on edge. 

And Bucky likes it when Steve shows him stupid YouTube videos over breakfast in the name of, 'Cultural Relevance' or whatever he likes to call it, but right now it's driving him up a wall. The first video Steve shows him has two llamas wearing hats. _ Hats. _ It's stupid, fucking ridiculous, and Bucky tells him so after the murder llama starts talking about being hungry for hands.

"I think it's supposed to be?" Steve says, frowning at him, then back at the screen. "Tony sent the link." Like that explains anything. Steve taps the next one and a new video starts to play. "He said this one was a visionary masterpiece that defined a generation."

It's about a unicorn named Charlie and Bucky makes it ten seconds before he's visibly shaking with rage. "Turn it off." When Steve doesn't immediately comply Bucky snaps, "Turn it off or I swear I'm gonna throw that fuckin' thing out the window."

"You're awful prickly today," Steve says, but he stops the video so Bucky lets him live.

But then Steve takes a bite of his toast. And that shouldn't be a problem, guy's gotta eat, right? Except he's crunching obnoxiously and Bucky can't hear himself think for Steve chewing cud with disturbing vigor and, frankly? 

Bucky.

Just.

Cannot. 

He explodes from the table, rattling the flatware in his ascent, and Steve pauses mid chew to raise an eyebrow. "Something bothering you, Buck?" Bucky sees two loaves worth of bread floundering about in his mouth.

Why is that pissing him off so much?

Bucky knows he's being unreasonable so instead of saying what he wants to ("Why the actual fuck are you like this!?") he mumbles something about going to see Tony before bolting. His thumb's been acting up, so Bucky reckons he's got plausible deniability on his side.

Down in the lab Tony is frying something with a blow torch while the speakers blare a song about someone desperately wanting sugar poured on them. Pepper is tucked away on the loveseat and smiles at Bucky when he walks through the door. Bucky doesn't know Pepper, not really, but he thought he liked her alright. 

Turns out he misjudged his feelings, because the way she's staring and flashing teeth his way has Bucky clenching his jaw.

Tony flips his welding mask up and shucks his gloves. "Something you need, Buckaroo?"

Bucky feels his shoulders relax despite himself. "My thumb's delayed." To emphasize the point he tries to wiggle said thumb, only for it to sputter to life a second later.

"When are you going to let me overhaul this thing? 'Cause that'd be a hell of a lot more effective than slapping band-aids on it every couple of months."

Bucky gives a shrug and plops down on a chair, laying his arm wrist up on the table so Tony can get at the control panel. "I don't want to have to relearn a new one. This is fine."

_ "Fine__." _Tony spits the word out like it's coated in acid. He unscrews the plates, tongue peeking out while he concentrates. "Why you would settle for this when you could have state-of-the-art tech boggles the mind."

Tony scowls as he pries the fuse box free, then wriggles his fingers into the space behind it so he can start splicing wires. "You could at least let me make you a new circuit board. One that's a little less USSR."

Here's where Bucky would tell Tony to fuck off. It's routine, Bucky comes down for a quick fix, Tony bemoans outdated tech, and Bucky tells him to blow it out his ass. It's their dynamic. It's fine.

But today Tony's clover and pine smell is incredibly distracting. 

That honeyed omega smell beneath it is hard to ignore too.

"Yeah, okay," Bucky says, leaning closer and trying to be subtle about inhaling more of Tony's scent. "You can build me whatever you want."

Tony stops, screwdriver in his teeth and fingers buried in the guts of Bucky's arm. He wrinkles his nose, shoots Bucky a look, and, huh, he's never noticed how pretty those Bambi eyes are.

Tony finishes his work in silence, which is uncharacteristic but Bucky's too busy basking in clover to pay it any mind. "So, you smell extra murdery right now," Tony says conversationally, after he gets the final screw in.  
  
“Excuse me?” Bucky says, because seriously, what the fuck?  
  
“You smell like you’re planning to go on a nationwide killing spree. Which is fine, I liked to be scared, that’s why Halloween’s my favorite holiday. Have you seen Nightmare on Elm Street? You should add that to your list, you’ll pee yourself, it’s awesome.” Bucky blinks and tries to keep up. It’s hard. Tony’s scent has his head full up with cotton. “But right now you’re stinking up the place with your alpha pheromones and honestly? It’s rude.”  
  
“Almost done?” Bucky freezes at Pepper’s voice, hyper aware of where she is behind him. Bucky can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Because I was promised sushi.”  
  
Bucky turns his head and _snaps. _  
  
He doesn’t even get the chance to be properly mortified before Tony’s hand surges up to catch the metal glove hurtling towards them. “Want to try that again?” Tony says, barely loud enough to be heard over the whine of the repulsor bursting to life.  
  
“Stop that,” Pepper admonishes, swatting the glove away like it’s a fly. Tony balks. Bucky does too. “Can’t you see he isn’t feeling well?”  
  
Come to think of it, he does feel like garbage. Which is disconcerting, seeing as how he hasn’t been sick since before the war. 

How long has he been shaking?  
  
“Oh honey, you’re burning up.” Pepper rests a hand on his forehead before pushing damp hair behind his ear. He adds sweating like a whore in church to his list of ailments.  
  
She’s so nice. Bucky wants to tear her arms off. “I don’t know why,” he starts, resisting the urge to maim her. “But you’re making it worse.”  
  
Tony laughs until he doubles over. Pepper purses her lips. “Care to share with the class?”  
  
“He’s cranky, got a fever, extra smelly, can’t stop sniffing me, and you make everything worse,” Tony says, listing each point with his fingers. “Isn’t it obvious? Snowflake’s got his first rut.”  
  
Bucky's stomach twists. Surely not…?

"Do you want me to get Clint?" Peppers asks, gentle, so fucking gentle. He longs to push her down the stairs.

"I'm fine," Bucky growls. Tony narrows his eyes and the guilt that overcomes him when that unhappy omega smell hits is overwhelming. "Sorry, I'll be fine. 'M just gonna hole up in my room for a while."

*

The living room stinks of another alpha when he gets back and Bucky’s so mad about it he's shaking. He hates this part most, can't stand how smells have such immense sway over his emotions. He makes a beeline for the shower, climbing in with his clothes still on as he washes Tony's smell off with extreme prejudice.

He stops scrubbing when he can’t smell anything anymore and stands under the spray, basking in the heat of it. He peels his clothes off with trembling hands and doesn’t look down or acknowledge the situation between his legs. Everything Hydra did to him is some degree of horrifying, but it's hardest to acknowledge the changes that happened below the belt.

It's an intimate place to get maimed. Bucky doesn't like to think about it.

He thumps his head against the tile, breath coming out in strained pants as he tries to ignore what's happening to him. It's no use, he's aching and hard in seconds, regardless of whether he likes it or not. Bucky grits his teeth and grinds his forehead against the shower wall, hands flexing at his sides. Unbidden Clint comes to mind and Bucky whimpers, screws his eyes shut tight. He thinks about that goofy grin, the way his shirt plays over his back when he's waiting to loose an arrow.

He's not going to do it. The last thing Clint would want is to take center stage in his fantasies and Bucky owes it to him to use some decorum and just _not do it_.

He thinks about Clint, covered in sweat from their run, eyes closed and shirt pulled up so Bucky could look his fill. Miles of skin, abs worthy of poetry, hips that begged to be kissed.

He's not going to do it. _ He's not. _

He thinks about waking up with their fingers laced together, Clint blinking at him sleepy and soft and not the least bit scared of him.

Looking at Bucky like he's something special. 

Like he's worth something.

It feels inevitable when Bucky gives in. He takes himself in hand and chases relief, daydreaming about Clint Barton's stupid face the whole time.

*

When Bucky comes out of the bathroom in his underwear and catches sight of Clint on his bed, it takes a Herculean effort to feign indifference.

"Who tattled?" Bucky asks while pulling on his sweatpants. 

"Tony told Steve and Steve told me," Clint says, cheek dimpling with the uptick of his mouth. 

It's adorable. Bucky wants to lick it and ain't that a strange thing to wish for?

"You don't have to be here," he says, because Clint deserves an out.

Clint's smile widens. "Do you want me to go?"

Bucky shakes his head and Clint responds by tilting his. Bucky swallows hard. "Well c'mon then, scent me."  
  
How’s he supposed to say no to that?

Bucky keeps his hands to himself when he leans over to skim his nose along the long line of Clint’s throat. Something wild settles in him. It's the first true bit of relief Bucky's had all day. “It’s okay to touch me. It’ll help.” Clint’s eyes are closed and he’s breathing shallow. “You’ll feel better if I smell like you.”  
  
Bucky hums and lets his hands drift to Clint’s shoulders. He noses closer, barely brushing scarred skin, and watches in fascination as Clint’s arms break out in goosebumps. “You alright?” Bucky asks, half worried Clint’s scared and not saying anything.  
  
“S’fine,” Clint says, opening an eye and flashing him a sheepish grin. “Just ticklish.”  
  
“Okay.” Bucky picks at Clint’s shirt as he gathers his nerve. “Can I take this off?.” When Clint’s eyebrows wrinkle he hurries to add, “It stinks like Stevie."

It's kind of making Bucky crazy, smelling somebody else all over him. Clint nods and Bucky helps him out of it, then pitches it clear out the door. Clint laughs and Bucky has the decency to flush. “Sorry.”  
  
“Nah, I get it. It’s just the hormones, it’s fine,” Clint says, and while that’s part of it, it definitely ain’t all of it.  
  
Clint lays down, sprawled across the bed like it's not a big deal. “C’mon, Bucky,” Clint says and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. “Get over here and make me smell like you.”  
  
Clint, because he's a little shit, has the audacity to waggle his eyebrows. “You’re a menace,” Bucky gripes, but he's still crawling over him, caging him against the bed with careful hands. Clint's looking up at him, giving him one of those sunshine grins, and Bucky freezes, can't help but stare.

"Wow, this whole thing's really got you tongue tied." Clint hooks a hand behind Bucky's neck and starts pulling, easing him down until they're flush together. "Like this," he instructs, taking Bucky's flesh hand and dragging it over. "Don't be shy."

"I won't bite you," Bucky promises.

"I know," Clint says, like it's that easy.

Bucky doesn't waste any more time, dives in and presses as close as he can. Clint's warm and docile under him, let's Bucky put his hands all over his neck, his shoulders, his chest, until Clint's covered in Bucky's scent.

It's satisfying on a visceral level.

Once he's content Bucky arranges them so they're on their sides, face to face like that first morning they woke up together. "What now?" he asks, running his knuckles up and down Clint's forearm. He's littered with brown sugar freckles. It's fascinating. 

"I dunno," Clint answers. "I've never helped anyone with a rut before."

"Really?"

"Really, really. In case you hadn't noticed, I don't exactly have alphas beatin' down my door."

"Not even one?"

"Nah," Clint says, like it doesn't bother him. Bucky sees right through it. "I'm not really a catch by omega standards."

That makes Bucky angry and sad in equal measure. "What makes you say that?"

"Well for one, I'm too tall."

"What's that matter?" 

Clint picks at the covers. "Alphas like it when you're small."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Bucky says, because anyone who wouldn't want Clint's mile long legs wrapped around them is a goddamn idiot.

"You think so?" Clint asks and that dimple is back to taunt him. "You gotta thing for tall guys, Barnes?"

No, I've just got a thing for you, he thinks. What he says is, "It ain’t a disqualifier."  
  
“Mmm.” Clint taps the tip of Bucky’s nose. “Then there’s the fact that I don’t have a scent. I can’t calm anyone down from a rut if they can’t smell me.”  
  
And the thing is, Clint’s not dense. Bucky can tell by the way his ocean eyes are boring into his that Clint hasn’t forgotten Stevie’s slip up in the living room, not for one second. But he also sees mercy there. Clint’s not gonna push if he doesn’t want him to, and Bucky _ really _doesn’t want him to, because if he tells Clint what all he smells like, he'll know that Bucky knows he’s lying. 

There’s three parts to Clint's scent, the smallest of which is the only one that's unique to him. It's the best thing Bucky's ever smelled, which is saying something, ‘cause his ma’s buttermilk pie smelled incredible. It's hard to find that base smell though, because it's dwarfed by the second note in his scent, the one that smells a lot like gunpowder.  
  
The one that smells a lot like Bucky.  
  
Now the only way for an omega to adopt part of an alpha's scent is for them to be bitten by that alpha multiple times, with the smell getting stronger each time they're bitten. Which is why Bucky's confident that he's sunk his teeth into Clint more than just the once, even if he can’t remember it. 

What he can’t figure is why Clint’s lying about it.

Bucky's got some theories, none of which are pretty, but he's put Clint through hell already, so the least he can do is let him have the secret until he's ready to share it. It’s hard for Bucky to keep his mouth shut about that third note though, because it’s the strongest and also the one that drives him completely nuts.  
  
Because no matter how shower fresh he is, what state of dress, or how much of Bucky’s scent he can get on him, Clint always smells resolutely like Steve Rogers.  
  
And it pisses Bucky right the fuck off, for reasons he refuses to examine closely. Bucky asked him about it once and while Steve assured him there wasn’t anything romantic going on between them, he also didn’t elaborate further. Said it was Clint’s story to tell and if Bucky really wanted to know he’d have to ask him. And as much as Bucky wants to know, more than that he wants to be patient and let Clint share whenever he’s ready.

Still, it haunts him. How many times has Steve bitten Clint for him to smell so strongly of vintage leather?  
  
“You’re calming me down just fine,” Bucky says eventually. “It’d be better if we were watchin’ that cooking show of yours, though.”  
  
“Cutthroat Kitchen?”  
  
“That’s the one,” Bucky says and the look Clint sends his way gives him butterflies.

*

They spend three days holed up together, Friday checking in periodically to make sure Clint’s alright. He never teases Bucky when he excuses himself to take care of the situation in his pants and in penance Bucky lets Clint be in charge of the remote. Most of the time Bucky wants to crawl out of his skin, but somehow Clint makes it better.  
  
It’s perfect and if Bucky wasn’t halfway in love with Clint before, he sure as hell is now.

*

_ The weather is oppressive the night they send the Soldier on his mission. Truthfully, he does not mind the cutting wind and endless rain, because it is warm in the city of Mumbai and this lessens the ache from months spent in cryostasis. “It’s monsoon season,” his handler tells him on the ride over. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ This is obvious, but he nods all the same. They do not like it when he does not acknowledge them. _  
  
_They drop him off in the redlight district and leave him to complete his task alone. It is a simple one, only a single target and she is old and does not suspect him. Her name is Elaina Medvedev and the Soldier does not know why he has been sent to kill her, only that she must die. He creeps through the alleyways, keeping to the shadows as he winds his way to her apartment._

_ It is above a brothel where the traffic is heavy. This is ideal, because the sounds of laughter and people fumbling after their pleasure will conceal any noise he will need to make. He picks the lock and when he walks through the door all is quiet. It is well into the early morning hours and the Soldier can hear the deep breaths of the slumbering woman through the walls that separate them. _

_ He hears the brothel below as well, the caterwauling of the whores as they fuck greedily is a dull roar in his ears, but the Soldier pays it no mind. Instead he follows that steady breathing, moving from room to room until finally he is at her bedside. She is old indeed, hair mostly silver and face creased with age. The Soldier finds the symbol of Hydra on her wrist, the octopus visible where her nightdress has ridden up. _

_ The Soldier wraps metal fingers around her neck and squeezes. _

_ Her eyes fly open and she thrashes, kicking and scrambling to pry his hand from her throat. She is strong for someone so old and though the Soldier admires this, he will not end it quickly. They wanted her to suffer, to know who orchestrated her death and for her last moments to be filled with terror. _

_ These are his mission parameters. He will comply. _

_ Her face turns purple and her eyes go red. She shapes words but can make no sound. Her nails rake his flesh arm and leave trails of blood in their wake. _

_ The air around him shifts and between one heartbeat and the next an arrow is buried between the eyes of Elaina Medvedev. _

_ The Soldier does not delay, wrenching the corpse between him and the window. He feels the impact of another arrow, and were it not for the dead woman it would have burrowed through his neck. On the roof across the street the Soldier sees a silhouette and draws his gun, fires off two shots. _

_ No more arrows are loosed. The Soldier waits before lowering the body, squinting through the rain-- _

_ He sees the figure a moment too late and cannot move fast enough to dodge completely. The Soldier hisses when the arrow grazes his cheek, does not turn to see where it has embedded itself before recalculating the trajectory and firing another round. _

_ There are no answering shots. The Soldier tucks away his weapon and scowls. His handlers will not be pleased with this outcome. There is no contingency plan in place for these conditions, but the Soldier decides to search for the unaccounted variable. Hopefully this will appease his handlers and stave off punishment. _

_ The rain soaks him and he must blink the black grease paint from his eyes as he climbs the fire escape. There is no one on the roof, but he is not worried. The Soldier knows his last bullet was true. He finds a puddle of bright blood to prove his theory, though the rain is already diluting the color. The soldier follows the crimson path to the edge of the roof, so close to the adjacent building he can step over the gap with ease. _

_ The blood trails across that building and the next, but the Soldier catches sight of something that gives him pause. There is a utility shed on this roof and though there is no path leading to it, a lone drop of scarlet falls from the handle before the rain washes it clean. _

_ The Soldier closes his eyes and listens. _

_ The clamor of the raindrops is all consuming and the street below is raucous even at this late hour. But through the din he still hears it, the quiet, stuttered breathing of someone who does not wish to be found. A heart racing, frantic, like a rabbit caught in the snare. _

_ The Soldier opens his eyes. _

_ The man almost kills him when the Soldier flings back the door but he is ready, crushing the barrel of the gun before a shot can be fired. He grabs the man by blond hair and pulls him into the downpour, heedless of the way he howls. The Soldier pins him against the shed, slams him hard enough for his teeth to rattle. _

_ "Who do you work for?" the soldier asks and the_ _man spits blood in his face._

_ It is a trivial thing, but it sparks unbridled rage inside the Soldier. He presses his thumb mercilessly into the bullet wound on his thigh until the man cries and struggles against him. "Who," he says again, voice pitched low against the man's ear. "Do you work for?" _

_ The man freezes and even doused as they are with rain the Soldier can smell something. It is a small, pathetic thing, but it calls to him. There is something about it that is familiar, something that has him tilting his head and searching for more. _

_ The Soldier finds what he is looking for where the man's neck meets his shoulder. There is a spot that is outlined by a scar, faded with age but still ugly to behold. The smell is most concentrated here and the Soldier traces the skin, mouth carefully ghosting across it. _

_ It smells like they were made to fit. _

_ Like they belong together. _

_ "What's your name?" He asks, lips pressed against skin. _

_ "You've never asked me before," the man says, and he sounds tired. "It's Clint." He blinks water from his eyes. "My name's Clint." _

_ "Clint," the Soldier says. He takes another drag of that meant-to-be scent. The longer he breathes it the more sure he is that he must keep this man safe. "We've met before." _

_ "Yes." He is shaking and the Soldier does not know if it is from fear or pain. Neither pleases him. "The last time was seven years ago." He laughs. "I hoped you were dead." _

_ "I'm not dead." There is a longing in his belly, ferocious and strange. _

_ His teeth graze the scar and Clint whines. It settles something in him. He opens his mouth to bite but Clint whispers, "Wait, wait," and twists until their lips are flush. He is clumsy but insistent. The Soldier shudders. He is not meant for such things. This belongs to soft people, not weapons like him. _

_ But the Soldier is greedy and allows Clint to kiss him as long as he likes. _

_ "I want to touch you," Clint says when they break away. "Give me my hands." _

_ He lets go and Clint winds fingers through his hair, tugging until he can suck a bruise below the Soldier’s ear. Everything inside him lights up and when he grips Clint’s hips it is with shaky hands. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ It is so lovely that the Soldier does not suspect the blade. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ The knife plunges between his metal arm and shoulder port, severing the wires that lie within and rendering the whole thing useless. The Soldier loses balance under the dead weight but fists his hand into Clint’s vest and drags him down with him. He can not lose him, certain beyond all doubt that he must do whatever it takes to keep Clint safe. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ The Soldier bites and Clint gasps, his whole frame quivering as the fight bleeds out of him. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ His arm is still dead at his side when the Soldier gets them arranged, sitting tall with Clint sprawled across his lap. “You could've killed me,” he says, bowed to shield Clint from the wind and rain. “Why didn’t you?” _

_Clint’s eyes are black holes, all other colors swallowed by his pupils. He looks far away. “I--,” Clint starts, but has trouble working his mouth. “I wanted to. Should have." He presses his head into the Soldier's stomach and makes another soft sound. "But I couldn't."_

_ "It's alright." The Soldier pets his rain soaked hair and Clint's fingers spasm. "I'll keep you safe." _

_ Clint begs him not to go but the Soldier must scout a place for them. He hides him in the utility shed and when he returns Clint has made it out onto the roof again. _

_ "Don't," Clint pleads, halfway back from that muted place. "I'll be good." He keeps blinking, but his eyes remain cloudy. "Please." _

_ "Hush," the Soldier murmurs, nuzzling his neck. Clint trembles. "I've got you." _

_ Another bite and Clint is gone, kitten weak and completely at the Soldier's mercy. _

_ * _

_ Getting Clint to the vacant townhouse is no easy task, but harder still is removing the bullet one handed. He has no anesthetic so he presses his teeth to the scar again, because it makes Clint quiet and pliant. The Soldier tends the wound and does not want to leave. _

_ In the end he decides he must. He does not know what his handlers would do if he took Clint to them, but the Soldier is certain it would not be safe. _

_ They kiss. The fog makes Clint hungry for him, has him sighing and arching into his touch. "You'll be okay," the Soldier says and Clint opens hazy eyes to try and focus. "You can go when you're able." _

_ "Okay." Clint presses his face into his hand. It makes the Soldier's chest ache. "Okay. I'll be good." _

_ The Soldier kisses him one last time. _

_ * _

_As they strap him in and shove the bite plate in his mouth, his final thoughts are of Clint, hidden away in the belly of the city. He is safe and this eases the Soldier's mind, lessens the dread as the chair hums to life. _

_*_

_When the electricity finally surges and they rip the memories from him, it is agony. _

_ * _


	8. The Bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like thank the fantastic [Inktastic1711](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inktastic1711/pseuds/Inktastic1711) and the marvelous [Mikayla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theholyfandoms/pseuds/Theholyfandoms) over at at [Winterhawklibrary](https://winterhawklibrary.tumblr.com/) for being my beta readers for this chapter. You guys were both amazing and I can't express how encouraging you both were.

_ He’s thirty four years old and deep in the heart of a Hydra base the next time Clint meets the shadow. This time, however, he knows exactly what he’s dealing with. _   
  
_ “Cap,” A repulsor blast goes off somewhere in the distance. “I got eyes on the Winter Soldier. Main floor, ten man escort. Looks like they’re heading for the doors on the east side.” _   
  
_ “Roger,” Steve answers. “I’m closing in on your location now. Don’t engage until I get there.” _   
  
_ “Copy.” Clint’s in the rafters and sticking to the shadows. There’s not a chance in hell he’s going to draw attention until he’s got backup. “Nat, where are you?” _   
  
_ “Sub level four.” Her Widow Bites whine in the background. “I’ve found some sort of chair. I’ll be there once I get the room clear.” _

_ A breeze cuts through the broken skylight above him, a cool relief against the back of his neck. _   
  
_ The Winter Soldier’s head snaps up. _   
  
_ “Fuck,” Clint hisses, drawing back a smoke arrow and shooting it, “Cap, you better come get your buddy.” _   
  
_ “I told you not to engage!” _   
  
_ “He saw me,” Clint shoots a cable arrow and scrambles through the skylight in a hail of gunfire. “I’m on the roof. Tony, can you do a pick up?"_

_ "I'm playing a very interesting game of dodge ball at the moment," Tony answers. An explosion booms in the direction of the quinjet, so catastrophic it rattles the building. "It involves rocket launchers." _

_ A metal fist breaks through the skylight closest to him. _

_ "Cap." Clint shoots a smoke arrow directly in the guy's face. The Winter Soldier surges to catch it, but it goes off and leaves him in a dense cloud of purple. Clint takes off running. "I'm serious, if you don't come get your man I can't promise I won't maim him." _

_ "I'm trying," Steve says and Clint can almost hear his teeth clenching. "I'm pinned." _

_ Clint skids to the edge of the building. Steve's got two guys on him and one more trying to pick him off from behind a dumpster. "Eyes up!" Clint leaps, putting an arrow in both the guys crowding Steve on the way down. It gives Steve the window he needs to pitch his shield and ricochet it off a security light to brain the man behind the dumpster. _

_ He catches Clint against his chest with a grunt. "Hawkeye," Steve grins, one hand still on his waist while he works the other free to snatch his shield on it's way back. "Thanks for the assist." _

_ "I aim to please." He grimaces when the smell of gunpowder and fresh blood hit him full force. He looks up and the Winter Soldier is scowling at them. _

_ "Jesus, Clint, what'd you do to piss him off?" _

_ "Nothing!" Clint says, a bit defensively judging by the way Steve squeezes his hip. The Winter Soldier lands with a roll and when he comes out of it he's got his gun up. _

_ He doesn't shoot, though, just stares at them with dark eyes. Clint feels the wind ruffle his hair and doesn't move, afraid to do anything that might break the ceasefire. _

_ The Winter Soldier takes a deep breath and looks at him, then at Steve, then back at him. His mouth forms a thin line as the barrel of his gun droops. "Do I--" he keeps glancing between them like he can't figure out who to look at. "Do I know you?" _

_ "Of course you do, Bucky," Steve's shield is down as he takes a careful step forward. "I'm Steve Rogers." He's so damn hopeful Clint has to look away. "And you're my best friend." _

_ "Steve," the Winter Soldier says, trying it out. He lowers his weapon the rest of the way and looks at Clint. "And you? Do I know you?" _

_ Steve's looking at him too, wearing an expression so complicated Clint can't hope to read it. "No," Clint says. "We don't know--" _

_ The ten man escort team finally catches up with them. _

_ He's lucky Steve's close enough to put his shield between him and the Hydra goons, otherwise he'd be riddled with bullet holes. Clint fires his last smoke arrow to give them some semblance of cover and heads for the dumpster. He crouches behind it and gets two more arrows off before he's interrupted by someone grabbing him by the ankle. _

_ It turns out the man Steve brained isn't half as dead as they'd first assumed. Clint's about to remedy that problem but the Winter Soldier beats him to it, driving a metal fist through the man's face. The arterial spray is spectacular. Clint's hit with a sense of deja vu when he doesn't duck quick enough to avoid getting blood in his mouth. _

_ "Thanks," Clint grumbles, wiping his mouth on his shoulder. _

_ "We've got to go," the other man says, face grim. "It's not safe for you here." _

_ "I can look after myself." Clint's eyes dart back to the firefight, searching for Steve. Being alone with the Winter Soldier has his hair standing on end, and running head first into the fray is starting to look like a better option with every passing second. _

_ "C'mon." The Winter Soldier grabs at his hand but Clint yanks it back before he can make contact. "It's not safe," he repeats, eyebrows pinched. _

_ "I'm not leaving Steve and I'm sure as hell not going anywhere with you." The Winter Soldier's eyes flick down to his neck and Clint's stomach twists. "Don't you fucking dare--" _

_ Clint doesn't stand a chance. He's pinned up against the dumpster with teeth at his throat before he can blink. _

_ * _

_ He's thrown over a metal shoulder and carried through the wilderness. The Winter Soldier tells him not to make a sound, and it feels vital for Clint to comply. He's not sure how long they walk before he falls. Rocks scrape his cheek because he can't make his arms work quick enough to catch himself. _

_ He stays quiet, even though it hurts, and it sounds like something is happening nearby. There's a whine of electricity and a dull thudding, followed by a vicious growl. He smells a crime scene waiting to happen, but there's something else here too, something that's as familiar as the back of his hand. _

_ Clint breathes in the scent of cedar chests lined with unbreakable promises and smiles. _

_ * _

_ The fog in his mind eases and Clint's body starts listening to him again. It's like moving through sludge but he's determined, and eventually he's able to push onto his hands and knees. He blinks at the ground beneath him until he can gather the strength to lift his head. _

_ Natasha is standing over him, snarling at anyone that so much as glances their way. Steve's way out in the treeline, both hands up and speaking in soothing tones. The Winter Soldier is slumped over behind him, clothes in tatters and every inch of exposed skin covered in welts from the Widow Bites. _

_ Jesus Christ, how many times had she hit him? _

_ "Nat," he says, but it's so quiet it gets lost to Hulk's roaring. He's pacing a perimeter around them, and when Tony tries to get close Hulk throws an entire tree at him. What the fuck is going on? _

_ "Nat," he tries again and she must hear him this time, because she whips around and oh, he understands now. _

_ Natasha's gone feral. _

_ Her pupils are blown and she looks every bit a predator, all lethal grace and ready to strike at a moment's notice. "Nat, I'm okay," he says. It comes out like a croak. _

_ Natasha crouches in front of him, breathing erratic as she takes his face in her hands. Clint's never seen her like this, not even when they'd first met and she'd been drugged out of her mind. "I'm okay," he says again, because it's too hard to say anything else. _

_ She takes him in her arms and holds him close. It's another hour before she lets anyone else get near him. _

_ * _

_ "It's not supposed to be like that," Natasha tells him later, when they're safe and tucked away in her bed. She's got a hand over the purpling bruise on his neck, shielding it even though they're the only ones in the room. _

_ "Yeah?" Clint says, too wrung out to be surprised. "How's it supposed to be?" _

_ "I've never been bitten. I've seen it happen to others, when I was younger. It makes you soft, but you're still you." Her mouth twists. "But when I looked at you, it was like you weren't there anymore. Like you were gone." _

_ They lie together in the darkness for a time, Natasha's confession hanging heavy between them. "I'm sorry I scared you," Clint says and he hopes she can see how much he means it. He never wants Natasha to be afraid like that, especially over him. _

_ "It wasn't your fault.” She traces the shell of his ear, lets her finger brush past his hearing aids. "I thought I knew all your weaknesses. All these years and you're still surprising me." _

_ "Do you think--" He closes his eyes and tries to keep the anxiety at bay. "Do you think there's something wrong with me? Or do you think it's him?" _

_ "I don't know." Natasha's hand hasn't moved from his neck. Clint thinks she might keep it there all night. "But I'm sure we should find out." _

_ * _

_ In the end, Bruce is the one that comes up with the idea. _

_ "It's just a theory," he explains, sitting at the foot of Natasha's bed with a plate of cookies balanced on his knee. _

_ Clint crunches into his third one. They're fucking delicious. _

_ "Slow down, they're not going anywhere,” Bruce tells him, but the wrinkles around his eyes say he’s not half as exasperated as he’s pretending to be. “Anyways, we’d need to test it to be sure.” _   
  
_ Clint does slow down at that, mouthful of peanut butter cookie going sour. “Test it?” Clint asks, aiming for indifferent, “How would we do that?”_

_ “Well, we need to establish a baseline, so we’d have an unenhanced alpha bite you,” Bruce informs him, not shying away from what needs to be said, “and then once we have our control we’d need to repeat it with an enhanced alpha.” _   
  
_ Clint looks out the window and works hard at schooling his expression. “You want me to let him bite me again?” _   
  
_ “No, Clint.” The cardamom goes sweet and it’s more comforting than it should be. Clint's always thought it funny how Bruce is the most nurturing omega out of the lot of them. “I think Steve would work just fine.” _   
  
_ Bruce grabs another cookie and holds it out to him. “You’re the boss here. Nothing happens without your say so.” _   
  
_ The feeling of dread falls away. Clint snags the cookie and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. “Thanks, Doc,” he says, getting crumbs all over the sheets. Natasha’s going to kill him. “You’re the best.”_

_ * _

_ "So," Clint rocks onto the balls of his feet and then back to his heels, "This is awkward as hell." _

_ "No kidding," Sam agrees, doing a better job of not fidgeting than Clint. They're in an observation room because Bruce insisted on limiting unknown variables. Clint thinks it's excessive, but who is the guinea pig to tell the scientist how to run his experiment? _

_ As if summoned, Bruce's voice comes on over the intercom. "Whenever you're ready." Clint gives the two way mirror a thumbs up. He can't see them, but he knows Natasha, Steve, and Tony are with Bruce on the other side. _

_ "This must be what a lab rat feels like," Clint grumbles. _

_ "Nah," Sam says with an easy smile. "A lab rat doesn't know what's happening to him. This is like volunteering at a magic show when you don't know how the trick is gonna pan out." _

_ "Am I the magician or the magician's assistant in this scenario?" _

_ "Are you kidding me?" Sam asks, smile going cheeky, "I'd be the assistant. There's no way you could pull off a corset." _

_ "Sure," Clint agrees easily, "but you don't have the legs for the dress and I'd look better in heels." _

_ "You're both very pretty," Natasha's voice is the one coming over the speakers this time. "Now quit stalling, I haven't got all day." _

_ "You heard the lady," Clint says, "Get over here and do it already." _

_ "Damn, Hawkeye, you've got to romance me first," Sam complains. He chews at his lip. "At least let me scent you?" _

_ "Alright, Romeo." Clint says, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. As much as he's trying for unaffected, he's actually pretty nervous and scenting can only help at this point. Clint tilts his head to the side, a silent offering, "Woo me." _

_ Sam crosses the room in a careful stride and when Clint doesn't protest, hauls him in for a hug. It's not a big, back slapping embrace like they usually share. Sam's being deliberately gentle with him, hands mindful as they skim over his back. Clint sighs, lets Sam make nonsense patterns over his spine and doesn't mind one bit. _

_ He tucks his head under Sam's chin and takes a deep breath. He smells like rain and it's as charming as ever. "Tell me before you do it," he mumbles, closing his eyes when Sam noses around his pulse point. _

_ "I wouldn't bite without asking first," Sam gives him a squeeze. It does wonders for settling Clint's nerves, "Tell me when you're ready." _

_ It's strange, being the one that calls the shots on this. Clint takes a while longer to just breathe, to smell thunderstorms with not so much as a hint of gravedirt ruining it. _

_ "Okay," Clint says, when he knows he's safe, "Do it." _

_ Sam bites. _

_ Clint clutches at Sam as the heat sweeps through him. The other man hums and bites down harder, his scent growing wild and erratic until it becomes a full blown hurricane. Clint's knees go weak and he has to hold on that much tighter to keep his balance. _

_ Eventually Sam pulls back, one hand on his waist and the other going to his jaw to keep it tilted. He drags a finger over the bite and Clint's entire body trembles. He blinks rapidly, trying to get his eyes to focus. _

_ Sam studies Clint's face. "Well your pupils are shot to shit. How're you feeling?" _

_ It's hard work, but Clint gets his mouth working, "N-nice." _

_ And honestly? He does feel nice. He's warm and content and just plain safe. It's like the afterglow of a night out with Natasha, when he's pleasantly buzzed and nothing can touch them. _

_ Sam's doesn't look like he believes him though, so Clint presses a kiss to his cheek to drive the point home. It must be unexpected, because it startles a laugh out of him. "Aw, Barton, you're precious." _

_ "Tell him to do something," Bruce says over the speakers. _

_ "Like what?" Sam looks at the two way mirror and raises an eyebrow. _

_ "Try something he wouldn't normally want to do." _

_ "Um," Sam keeps gnawing away at his lip while he mulls it over. Clint stays still, just grateful to be close to him. "Okay, Hawkeye. Give me fifty jumping jacks." _

_ And here's the thing, Clint absolutely wants to make Sam happy right now. Wants to do whatever it takes to earn one of those playful gap toothed grins. _

_ But at the same time, jumping jacks are the ** worst.**_

_ Clint opens his mouth. Closes it again. Practices shaping the word a couple of times. "No?" Clint tries and he likes it so much he says it again, "No." _

_ Sam chuckles and Clint glances up to see that he looks delighted. "No, huh?" Sam ruffles his hair and it makes Clint giddy, "Alright then, let's try this. Say falcons rule and hawks drool." _

_ Clint wants to make Sam happy, really, but that's...just awful. And wildly inaccurate. There's no planet where Clint would even consider saying that, no amount of duress he could be under that would have him spewing such blatant lies. _

_ It takes a few stops and starts, but eventually Clint manages it. He looks directly into Sam Wilson's eyes and only stutters a little when he tells him, "Get f-fucked." _

_ Sam barks out a laugh, body shaking with how hard he's giggling. Clint's heart feels like its soaring and he buries his face in Sam's neck to hide his undoubtedly goofy grin. _

_ "He's fine guys," Sam says, giving Clint's back a friendly pat, "Super cuddly, but still a giant asshole." _

_*_

_ The experiment with Sam had been awkward, but this, Clint decides, is painfully cringeworthy. _   
  
_ They’ve been sitting next to each other on a cot for the past thirty minutes, and Steve’s made a valiant effort of not meeting Clint’s gaze in all that time. Clint’s tried everything he can think of to put Steve at ease, but so far friendly banter and quiet reassurances have only made him withdraw further into himself. _   
  
_ “We don’t have to do this at all,” Clint says eventually. They’re sitting close enough that their hands are touching, pinkies carefully wedged against each other. “Hell, if it makes you this uncomfortable we probably shouldn’t.” _   
  
_ “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” Steve admits, still looking anywhere but at Clint. His cheeks have gone rosey and he looks so young it makes Clint’s heart hurt. “It’s just that, I haven’t, uh, I mean, I’ve never--” _   
  
_ “I’m your first?” he asks and Steve nods. Clint grins, can’t help it, and knocks their shoulders together. “You mean I’m defiling Captain America? Man, I know at least ten different omegas that’d kill to be in my shoes right now.” _   
  
_ “That’s enough out of you,” Steve says, but he relaxes his shoulders, so Clint calls it as a victory. “I’ve been with people, just never bit an omega before.” _   
  
_ Clint purses his lips. “What about Peggy Carter? I thought you two were a thing.” _   
  
_ Steve’s eyes go soft and wistful, the same way they always do when he talks about Peggy. “We weren’t like that. I wanted to, but there wasn’t enough time.” He finally looks at Clint and flashes him a sad smile. “I got to kiss her though. We were in the middle of a chase, so it was quick. But…,” _   
  
_ “...It was magic?” Clint guesses, tapping his bare foot against Steve’s. _   
  
_ “Yeah.” Steve widens his stance so his leg and Clint’s are flush. “Magic. That’s a good word for it.” _   
  
_ “It probably won’t be a big deal. The bite, I mean.” When Steve looks confused, Clint adds, “I have, um--” Clint makes a weird fluttering motion with his hands and Steve looks even more perplexed. “--some kind of chemical imbalance? Too much prolactin, or something like that. Anyways, I won’t trigger a normal bite reaction, so you’ll probably miss out on the high that comes with it.” _   
  
_ “Okay,” Steve says, brow wrinkled. “Thanks for telling me, I guess?” _   
  
_ Clint huffs. Jesus, did he have to spell it out? “It doesn’t have to count, if you’re saving yourself for marriage, or whatever.” _   
  
_ Steve blinks once, twice, then his mouth quirks into a shit eating grin. “Clint Barton, are you calling me a prude?” Clint's face heats up and Steve howls with laughter. “You are!” _   
  
_ “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Clint grumbles as Steve doubles over. “You blush anytime I get close to a kitchen, so it wasn’t like it was that much of a stretch.” _   
  
_ “That’s because I didn’t see a lot of omegas in my time.” Steve’s straightens, but he’s still grinning like a loon. It’s ridiculous. “The Omega Rights movement didn’t happen until the 50’s. Before then it was rare to see an omega that wasn’t related to you.” _   
  
_ “Really?” _   
  
_ “Yep,” Steve says. “Well, unless you were rich. Then you could pay for courting rights, but even then it wasn’t a guarantee. See, it was kinda like putting in a job application--,"_

_ "As riveting as this history lesson is," Tony's voice comes over the speakers, making them both jump. "Are we going to get this show on the road sometime soon or do I need to order lunch?" _

_ "Jeez, Tony, give us a minute," Steve says, scowling at the two way mirror. _

_ "I've given you plenty of time, Cap. Quit pussyfooting around and do it." _

_ Steve sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "This isn't going to get any easier the longer I put it off, is it?" _

_ "It'll be fine." Clint covers Steve's hand and squeezes. "Think of it like ripping off a band-aid. The quicker you do it, the faster you can be done with it." _

_ Steve doesn't look convinced. "C'mere," Clint says, tugging Steve's hand. "Gimme a hug." _

_ Even that's weird at first, because Steve doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. "Christ, you act like I'm the one that's about to bite you," Clint complains before throwing caution to the wind and crawling into Steve's lap. _

_ Tony turns on the intercoms to wolf whistle at them. Clint aims a middle finger towards the mirror and Steve's so red it's frightening. _

_ "See? Not so bad," Clint says, patting Steve's chin to get him to close his mouth. "You've got a nice lap, Cap. I'd give it a four star Yelp review." _

_ "Why only four?" Steve settles a hand on Clint's hip and brushes his thumb over the fabric of his t-shirt. _

_ "Personal preference," Clint says with a shrug. It gets a snort out of Steve, so Clint elaborates. "I've got a thing for beefy thighs. Yours are kind of boney." _

_ "Mouthy, aren't you?" Steve asks, but there's no heat to it. His face isn't raspberry red anymore and he's smiling up at Clint, thumb still petting his hip. _

_ "Guilty." Clint wraps his arms around Steve and hums. "See? Easy as pie," he says, hiding his face in Steve's neck. His closes his eyes and breathes. _

_ In. _

_ Out. _

_ Everything is leather and citrus. _

_ Steve covers the back of his neck with a warm hand and Clint makes a small sound. Steve squeezes lightly, barely any pressure at all, and Clint digs his fingers into Steve's shoulders. "Should I do it now?" Steve asks, so quiet Clint's hearing aids almost don't pick it up. _

_ Clint swallows, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. Why did this seem like a big deal all of a sudden? There's a heaviness hanging over them that hadn't been there a moment ago. Clint ignores the sense of foreboding and presses his nose to Steve's neck. He takes another breath. There's no gunpowder. No blood. No gravedirt. _

_ "Yeah," Clint says, shifting to bare his throat. "You can do it now, if you want." _

_ Steve's breath fans over his neck. Clint's heart is racing and he almost backs out, almost says, "Wait," but then, but then-- _

_ Steve sinks his teeth in and Clint gets lost. _

_ * _

_ When Clint starts to come back to himself, he notices three things are different. _

_ The first is that the lights are out. The room is pitch black except for the glow of the hallway light filtering in from the window on the door. If Clint squints hard enough he can make out the furniture in the room, but not much else. _

_ Which leads Clint to the second thing, which is that someone has barricaded the door and tacked blankets up over the two way mirror. That seems...wrong, for some reason, but his thoughts keep getting away from him, so he can't figure out why. _

_ The third thing is that Steve has them both shoved into the far corner of the room with the cot overturned in front of them like a barrier. He's got Clint trapped against his chest, and he's holding so tight that Clint's ribs are starting to protest. _

_ "S-Steve," He squirms, trying to get comfortable. "Steve, what's--" _

_ Steve ** growls ** at him. _

_ Clint stops moving. He thinks that maybe he's stopped breathing too. "Steve?" He's mad and that makes Clint's stomach ache. "Steve, I'm sorry." He burrows close and rubs his cheek against Steve's chest, hopes the apology is sincere enough. _

_ It's hideous, the thought of Clint doing anything that might upset Steve. _

_ Steve's shaking all over. He hugs Clint tighter and it's hard to breathe. "I'm the one that should be sorry," Steve says and his voice sounds wrecked. "Just, just try not to move, alright?" His hand is trembling when it cards through Clint's hair. "It, um, it's really important to me that you stay safe right now. And when--" _

_ Steve stops, shoves his nose to the spot that he'd just bitten, and exhales long and hot over the tender flesh. _

_ Clint whimpers. _

_ "--And when you move, it feels like you're trying to get away from me." He presses the words directly into Clint's skin. It seems to calm him. Clint thinks it feels nice too. "And Clint, I--Jesus, I can't tell you how important it is that I keep you safe right now. But if you get away from me, I won't be able to protect you. _

_ "And I can't let that happen, I ** can't**. So please don't move." Steve traces his nose over Clint's scar and doesn't let him go. "Because if you do I'll bite you again, just to keep you here with me." _

_ "I'll stay still," Clint tells him, presses his lips to the underside of Steve's jaw and whispers, "I'll be good. I promise." _

_ "You're already good, Clint," Steve says and, oh, isn't that nice? "You're so good. Now stay still for me, okay? I just need a minute." _

_ So Clint lets Steve hold him too tight and doesn't move. He makes his breathing shallow, his chest hardly expanding at all. _

_ He's still. _

_ He's good. _

_ He's light-headed and Steve must notice, because he pulls back to look at his face. Steve is a mess, hair sticking up at all angles and his pupils are blown wide. "What's wrong?" He takes Clint's face in both his hands. "Clint, tell me what's wrong with you." _

_ "I'm not moving," Clint defends. _

_ "I know that," Steve says. "But you're breathing funny and you look like you're about to faint." _

_ "Oh." Clint gives him a smile. "That's for you. See?" Clint takes a shallow breath and then blows it out carefully. "I'm not moving." _

_ He's expecting praise, but instead Steve looks stricken. "Am I still moving too much?" He's done something to hurt Steve's feelings and Clint hates that. "I could maybe hold my breath?" _

_ "Please breathe," Steve says and his eyes look sad. It's hateful. "I always want you to breathe." _

_ Clint sucks in a breath and it's like the levee breaks because now he's hyperventilating. He can't seem to stay on top of things. Everything's getting away from him. "Come on." Steve splays a hand over his stomach. "It's okay. Deep breaths. Use your gut." _

_ "I ca--can't," Clint hiccups. _

_ "That's okay too," Steve says. "We'll just keep trying until you can." _

_ It takes time, but they get there. More than once Clint thinks he might actually pass out, but Steve keeps a hand pressed on his stomach and talks him through it. _

_ He's breathing normally again and he's starting to feel more like himself and less like a shell when he asks, "Where is everybody?" _

_ The hand that's on Clint's jaw tightens. "They're fine," Steve says. "I can't do it because it'll make me mad, but if you look up I think you'll see a spider." _

_ Clink blinks, then cranes his head to peer up at the ceiling. A pair of green eyes stare back at him from behind the ceiling vent cover. "Tasha," Clint says, relief flooding him. _

_ "Can we not talk about her?" Steve asks. "I think I've got a handle on this, but the thought of someone taking you is--" his whole face screws up, "It's a lot right now." _

_ "I'm sorry," Clint says, dropping his head against Steve's chest, "I really didn't think I'd trigger a bite reaction. I didn't with Sam." _

_ "Well, you did with me." Steve's hands aren't shaking as bad anymore. Clint hardly notices the tremor as Steve thumbs at the bite mark. _

_ "I shouldn't have," Clint insists. "I don't have a scent, there isn't anything to trigger it." _

_ Steve ducks his head and exhales into his hair. "Clint." He keeps his head buried in Clint's hair and breathes. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" _

_ Clint must still be out of it, because he can't follow Steve's train of thought. "Sure?" He says, but it sounds uncertain. _

_ "Shield is willing to release Bucky into Avengers custody," Steve says and Clint can't keep up. "They'll let him move into the tower as long as we report to them weekly." _

_ "Oh," Clint says, quiet. He's worked hard to get his breathing under control, but the fear that surges through him at that statement threatens to undo it in an instant. "That's...good?" _

_ "I think we should keep him at Shield." _

_ What? _

_ Surely Clint hadn't heard him right. _

_ "Bucky's my best friend." Steve's voice sounds strained and Clint would give anything to make it better. "But you're my friend too." _

_ Clint's eyes are hot. He sniffles and tries to be subtle when he wipes his face on Steve's shoulder, but the wet spot he leaves behind makes him feel pitiful. _

_ "We won't move him in," Steve says, petting a hand down his back, "Not until you tell me you're ready." _

_ "What if I'm never ready?" Clint asks, feeling raw and exposed. He's honestly not sure he can ever share space with Bucky and still be able to call it home. _

_ "That's okay too," Steve says, dropping a kiss into Clint's hair, "Whatever you need, Clint. We'll figure it out." _

_ * _


	9. The Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like thank the fantastic [Inktastic1711](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inktastic1711/pseuds/Inktastic1711) and the marvelous [Mikayla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theholyfandoms/pseuds/Theholyfandoms) over at at [Winterhawklibrary](https://winterhawklibrary.tumblr.com/) for being my beta readers. Y'all are really out here doing the lord's work.
> 
> Also a HUGE thank you to the perfect [Stellalou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellalou) (who you can also find here) for being my hero. Without you listening to me vent about writer's block and then letting me steal your ideas on how to get Clint & Crew from Point A to Point B, who knows what I would have done.
> 
> Cried, probably.

Clint’s got Mad Max: Fury road queued up and half a slice of pizza down his gullet when Natasha barrels into the apartment.  
  
“Go away, Tasha,” Clint says around his mouthful, each word accentuated by a spray of crumbs. Natasha narrows her eyes and Clint swallows to avoid a death glare. “Don’t you have a mission to get ready for?”  
  
Said mission is the reason Clint's trying to eat his feelings by gorging himself on a mountain of carbs and cheese. It’s Bucky’s first time on a job and Clint had been positive he’d be assigned as backup. Hell, he’d even volunteered for it, once word got around they’d be letting Bucky into the field. It’s undercover work to boot, and Clint _ lives _for those sorts of missions, but they ended up passing him over in favor of Natasha and Wanda.

Clint’s not bitter about it.  
  
Not.  
  
At.  
  
All.  
  
“I do.” Natasha pulls the remote from his hands and bullies him off the couch. “And now so do you.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Clint trips over his feet as she herds him toward the door. “Is Wanda alright?”  
  
“She’s going into heat,” Natasha explains, pawing at his shirt until Clint gets the hint and pulls the whole thing over his head. “We’re subbing you in.”  
  
“Yeah?” Clint asks, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. “They're letting me go? How’d you convince them?”  
  
“A lady never tells,” Natasha says with little inflection, but her lips are quirked in a way that spells trouble. “I had to do something, you’ve been pining all day. It's pitiful.”  
  
“Pining?" Clint huffs. "Over what?"

"Over the fact that you don't get to play omega to Bucky's debonair alpha." She pauses, watching him intently. 

"Wha-what?" He stammers, cheeks warming. Natasha’s smile grows wider and he realizes she didn’t actually know, only suspected, and Clint's just proven her theory. Shit. "That's not--I don't care about that!" 

"No?" She asks, looking all kinds of smug as she tugs him to the elevator. "Then I suppose you drooling over Charlize Theron in black grease paint has nothing to do with the feelings you're harboring for someone else with that exact same aesthetic?"

Clint's ears are on fire. "That's a coincidence." 

"There are no coincidences," Natasha says sagely. She mashes the button for Wanda's floor and the numbers flash as the car makes its way to them.

"Don't you need another omega for this?" Clint asks, desperate to distract her. He's nowhere near ready to admit any feelings he may or may not have for Bucky. "You know, one people can actually smell?"

"That's why I'm sending you to Wanda." The elevator doors come apart with a chime and Natasha shoves him through. "Let her scent you. I'll find you something to wear."

The ride to Wanda's floor takes a small eternity and Clint uses that time to beat himself up over giving the game away to Natasha. The truth is, Clint _ likes _ whatever it is he and Bucky are doing. He looks forward to late nights on the couch, pressed too close and arguing over which _ Jumanji _ to watch first. He loves taking Bucky out and showing him all his favorite spots, dragging him everywhere from the Bronx Zoo to the best dumpling houses in town.

And Clint's starting to think maybe Bucky likes it too, judging by the way he'll take any excuse to touch Clint these days. Hell, he'd initiated an honest to God game of footsie yesterday at the breakfast table. If that doesn't count as flirting, Clint's not sure what does.

But whatever's going on between them, Clint's not ready to share. 

He shakes his head and focuses on the task at hand. Clint knocks on the door to Wanda's apartment and isn't the least bit surprised when Vision answers. “Clint.” He’s wearing his human disguise and it’s as unnerving as ever. “Is there a reason you're not wearing a shirt?”  
  
"Um." Clint flexes his toes against the tiles. "I need to borrow Wanda?"

Vision's mouth thins. "I’m afraid Wanda is unwell this evening. Perhaps another time?"

"It's for the mission." Clint wedges his foot in the door before Vision can close it in his face. “I’ll be in and out before you know it. Quick as a flash."

Vision doesn't look convinced. 

"Let him in, Viz," Wanda calls from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

Vision rubs his temples, sighs, then steps aside so Clint slide through. "She really isn't feeling well," he says, voice quiet so Wanda can't hear.

"I won't be long." Clint flashes his most charming smile. "I'll be out of your hair in no time, really. Scout's honor."

The sentiment works or Vision plain gives up. Regardless, he leads Clint back to the master bedroom where Wanda is sitting against the headboard. She's a wreck, wearing her sheets like a robe and skin shining with sweat. “Hey, sugar,” Clint murmurs, gentle as he sidles up next to her. She's trembling so hard she can hardly keep hold of the blankets. “How’re you holding up?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Wanda says, always the trooper. She's giving off heat like a furnace, so hot that being this close is almost unbearable. “It's still early. Besides, Viz is looking out for me.”  
  
“Oh, is he?” Clint teases and gets a swat for his trouble. “Did you remember to take your medicine?”  
  
“Yes, mom.” Wanda grumbles and it's almost cute but then she's gasping, clutching at Clint hard enough to make him wince. "Sorry, sorry." She whimpers, grinding her forehead against his shoulder as she tries to curl in on herself.

"S'alright," Clint says, running his knuckles up and down her back as she weathers another cramp. "Happens to the best of us." 

She loosens her grip, only to tighten it again a second later. It'll definitely leave a mark. “You’d better hurry up and ask whatever it is you came to ask." Wanda shifts, whines when she can't get comfortable. "Because I’m about to lose it."

“They’re subbing me in on the mission,” he explains, still running a hand down her spine. Her trembling has gotten so severe she’s practically vibrating. "I need to borrow your scent."

"Alright," she says between the tremors. "Get ready."

And that's all the notice he gets before she lets go of her magic and he's drowning in sugar cane.

Clint takes a stuttered breath and barely manages a quiet, "_ Holy shit _ ," before he slams his eyes shut and ducks his head. It's so _ sweet _. Clint's never once been attracted to another omega, but her honeyed heat scent makes even him a little weak at the knees.

"We've got to hurry," Wanda says, a little breathless and a lot needy. She presses as close as she can, like she's trying to take up residence inside his chest. "Hurry."

He reels her in and holds still as she rubs their wrists together. He's light headed by the time she gets to his neck, sways forward to rest his forehead on hers. "I think we're good," he says when their eyes meet and he sees how far gone she really is. He arranges her flat on the bed, brushes sweat drenched hair out of her face to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Thanks. I’ll be the Belle of the ball for sure.”  
  
“G-good luck,” Wanda tells him, but she’s already writhing and Clint knows she's well and truly out of it at this point. “Viz,” she sighs, her hand escaping the sheets to reach for him. “Please.”  
  
“I hope your mission is a success, Clint," Vision says.

Clint claps a hand on Vision's shoulder and squeezes. "Take care of her," he says, knowing he doesn't need to.

Vision just smiles. "I will."

*

When Clint gets back to his bedroom, it's a complete mess. Natasha's pulled out most of his closet and scattered it everywhere, piles haphazardly arranged on every surface. "Nat," Clint says cautiously. "You having trouble?"

"It needs to be light blue." She's still lost in the back of his closet somewhere.

"Why does it matter?" Clint wanders closer and leans a hip against the door frame. "I look better in purple anyways."

Natasha turns to look at him. "No, it needs--," she stops and Clint can see the exact moment she smells him, because her nose twitches and her pupils dilate at an alarming speed. Clint wonders if it hurts her eyes. "Wow," she whispers, stepping into his space and going up on her tiptoes to sniff his neck. "You smell lovely."

"I know, right?" Natasha buries her nose in the hollow of his throat and exhales loudly. Wow, she must _ really _like Wanda's smell. "Why the sudden fixation on blue?"

Natasha scowls and turns back to the problem at hand. She rifles through the coat hangers, tossing different garments onto the floor haphazardly. "It's part of the rules. Alphas wear black, omegas wear light blue."

"Ew," Clint says, because gross. "What about betas?"

"There won't be any beta guests in attendance." Natasha pauses to consider a shirt before pitching the whole thing once she finds a stain on the breast pocket. "The wait staff are all beta though. I believe they'll be in beige."

"That's very Gilead of them." Clint leans over to free a garment bag from its hiding spot on the top shelf. "Maybe this one'll work? Pepper got it for me."

Natasha unzips the bag and holds it at arm's length, humming while she inspects it. "It'll do," she decides, draping it over all the other clothes on the bed. "Do you need me to go over the details?"

"It's a rumored omega smuggling ring, right?" Clint asks. Natasha nods. "And we're looking for proof."

"Exactly." She lays out his best pair of slacks, followed by a leather belt. "You're Chris. I'm Naya. James is John Fisher, but never address him unless he speaks to you first."

"Got it." This party is getting creepier and creepier by the minute. "And even then it's all 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, Sir.'"

"Or alpha," Natasha adds and Clint doesn't hold back the snort in time. "I'm serious, Clint. Rumor has it they do biddings somewhere on site and it's invitation only. If James doesn't seem like he's in total control we'll miss our opportunity."

"Alright, alright," Clint sighs, runs his hands over his face. "I'll be good. I swear."

"I know." She's smiling again, eyes full of mischief. "You'll be _ very _ good for James, won't you?"

Clint flushes all the way down to his belly button. Natasha looks delighted. "You're a monster."

"Undoubtedly," she says. "Now get ready. We leave in an hour."

*

Clint remembers why this particular shirt stayed in the back of his closet by the time he makes it to the lobby.  
  
It’s beautiful of course, and iridescent, the color changing from aquamarine to forget-me-not blue with every move he makes. It draws a lot more attention than he'd like, especially for this sort of mission. Then there's the fact that it's incredibly delicate, flimsy even, and sometimes the gossamer fabric drags in a way that has Clint biting his lip.

It's so _ soft. _

Someone makes a pleased noise and Clint turns to see Natasha exiting the elevator, wearing layers of gauzy tulle. Her makeup has her looking more porcelain doll than vixen, lashes dark and cheeks rouged peony pink. She’s the picture of a harmless omega. 

It’s genius.

Natasha twirls. Clint laughs and catches her when she gets close enough. "Gorgeous," he tells her, midway through a dip.

"Flatterer," Natasha says, eyes warm when she pats his cheek. 

"You two startin' the party without me?"

Clint looks up and very nearly drops Natasha.

Bucky looks sinful in his all black suit. His hair is cut short and he's clean shaven, chin dimple on full display and practically begging to be kissed. He's grinning ear to ear, boyish and handsome and Clint wants to pin him to a wall and eat him alive.

It's a problem.

"Close your mouth," Natasha whispers. It startles Clint into righting her. "You'll catch flies."

"I--um." Clint flounders, at a loss for words. Bucky grins that much wider. "You, ha, you look real nice."

"You think?" Bucky asks, gaze wandering to give him a once over. His eyes get stuck on where Clint's left an extra shirt button undone. Bucky licks his lips. It makes Clint feel sort of crazy. "You don't look half bad yourself."

Clint's heart does a funny thing. "Thanks." He clears his throat and nods towards the doors. "We'd better get going. We've got a super creepy party to crash."

The car that's waiting for them is an impressive thing, but it's still a tight fit when they all pile into the back. Logically it makes the most sense for Natasha to sit in the middle since she's the smallest, but when Clint tries to let her in after Bucky she pushes him in instead.

_ "Nat," _he hisses, catching himself on the door. 

_ "Clint," _Natasha hisses right back. She gives him another shove. "Be a gentleman for once in your life and give the lady the window seat."

Clint knows he's playing into her hand, but he lets her shove him in next to Bucky anyways. It's cramped and his legs are five inches too long for it to be even remotely comfortable. The car starts moving and Clint shifts restlessly, knocking his knees into Bucky's.

"Having trouble there?" Bucky asks after about the third time Clint bangs his shins into the center console.

"No." Clint attempts to maneuver himself into a better spot and swears colorfully when he jams his foot against a hidden tire iron under the seat. "Maybe."

"You're ridiculous." Bucky reaches an arm behind Clint and pulls, arranging him so he's leaned against Bucky with his legs stretched out onto Natasha's side of the car. "Better?"

Bucky is warm and solid against his back. Clint relaxes into him. "Better."

The city lights flicker outside the window as the car stops and starts at multiple red lights. Natasha is quiet, eyes focused on where she's tapping away at her phone. Clint's just starting to drift when Bucky huffs and asks, "What's that smell?"

"Hm?" Clint turns his head so he can glance up at him. "Smell like sugar?"

Bucky makes a considering noise in the back of his throat. "A little. Smells like someone's about to burn up too."

"That'd be me." Clint angles his chin so Bucky has better access to his throat. "I'm borrowing Wanda's scent. Nice, isn't it?"

"It's very... strong," Bucky says eventually. He ducks his head and noses at Clint's scar. Clint feels Bucky's chest expand. "Almost can't smell anything else."

Clint hums, distracted by the long line of traffic in front of them. They're slowly easing their way closer to the front of the hotel. "We're just about there. You ready to play chauvinist pig?"

Bucky snorts. "I guess. Do you think you can behave?" 

"Sure," Clint answers. "It'll be a piece of cake."

"If you say so," Bucky says. He doesn't sound like he believes it.

"I can be good when I want to be," Clint defends. "I have pretty manners."

"Maybe." Bucky's outright smirking now. "All I'm saying is that I've never seen you use them before."

And maybe he's joking, maybe he isn't. Either way Clint's not going to let it slide. "I'll show you," Clint says and he's already twisting, dipping his head and looking up at Bucky through the expanse of his eyelashes. He aims for demure when he pitches his voice low and says, "I'll be on my best behavior, sir. I promise."

Bucky swallows. 

It takes all of Clint's willpower not to grin in victory.

"We're here." Natasha threads her fingers through Clint's as the driver comes around to open the car door. "Come on, let's show James how good you can be."

They make their way to the front door hand in hand, trailing behind Bucky as he presents his invitation to the doorman. They're ushered into a ballroom that's dripping in crystals and so over the top it's borderline gaudy. Everyone's dressed to the nines. The guests in black are talking freely and laughing, by all appearances having a great time. 

The guests in blue are silent as can be, eyes trained on the floor. 

It makes Clint's skin crawl.

They've barely finished their first loop around the room when a woman grabs Bucky's arm to stop him. "I haven't seen you around before," she comments, voice smoky like her scent. Her black evening dress is cut low enough that Clint's honestly not sure how she hasn't had a wardrobe malfunction yet. "First time at a Foundation dinner?"

"Is it that obvious?" Bucky says, all charm and easy laughter.

"I make it a point of knowing all our members." She flips her dark hair over her shoulder before extending a hand. "Valerie Diaz, chapter president."

"John Fisher." Clint peaks long enough to see him shake her hand. There's another woman behind Valerie in blue chiffon, but Clint has to avert his gaze before he can get a good look at her. "It's a beautiful party. Very impressive."

"It's for a good cause too." She still has Bucky's hand in hers, squeezing tightly. "All of the proceeds go to the Traditional Family Values Foundation."

Bucky, bless him, doesn't miss a beat. "Is that so? I'll have to be more generous at the silent auction."

She releases her death grip on Bucky's hand and laughs. 

It's not a nice sound. 

"I think we're going to get on quite well, Mr. Fisher." Valerie's scent shifts, becoming inviting like a campfire. "What an exotic pair you have. Are they both yours?"

Bucky hums in agreement. "I saw them together and couldn't decide on just one." He shrugs. Clint's impressed with how good an actor Bucky is, because he's coming off like a real creep right now. "I've always been a bit greedy."

"Well, you have excellent taste." Clint can feel it when Valerie focuses her attention on where he and Natasha are still holding hands. "They look so lovely together. Would you mind if I inspected them?"

"Be my guest," Bucky says, like this is normal, and steps aside to allow her access.

She moves into Natasha's space first, making a contemplative noise as she turns her head one way, then the other. "Exquisite," Valerie decides, leaning in to inhale loudly. "I've never smelled anything like it."

It's a compliment, but the predatory lilt in her voice has the hair on the back of Clint's neck standing on end.

"Isn't it? It's what I like best about her." Out of the corner of his eye Clint sees Bucky wind a lock of Natasha's hair around his finger and tug at it playfully. "Don't be rude, Naya. Tell the lady thank you."

"Thank you, ma'am," Natasha says, barely above a whisper. 

"She's perfect," Valeria coos, obviously enamored. She pats Natasha's cheek before moving on to begin her inspection of Clint. She tilts his head just like she did with Natasha and Clint takes the manhandling in stride, keeping his eyes carefully averted.

"Look at me, pet," she orders and Clint hesitates before meeting her gaze. Valerie purses her lips and squints, like she can't figure him out. "Well he's gorgeous, there's no doubt about that. But he's rather tall, isn't he?"

"A little," Bucky agrees, pressing a hand to the small of his back. Clint is hyper aware of the touch. "But you don't notice it so much when he's on his knees.”

_ Jesus H. Christ. _

Clint's face heats up in record time and Valerie makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a purr. "Look how red you've made him, Mr. Fisher. I believe your boy is shy."

"It's part of his charm," Bucky says, stroking his thumb over the waistband of Clint's pants. Clint, miraculously, manages not to squirm.

"I'm starting to see your appeal." She leans up and just like with Natasha he can tell when Wanda's scent hits her, because Valerie's eyes go dark and her breathing stutters. 

"Oh." She twists both hands into his shirt and pulls him down so she can bury her nose in his neck. Clint flinches and Valerie digs her nails in to keep him from going anywhere. "You smell _ divine _."

She rakes her teeth over his collarbones and Clint's about to start throwing punches, because nobody's biting him without his say so, mission or not. But Bucky intervenes before it comes to that, jerking Clint back and wedging himself between the two of them. "That's enough," Bucky says, an edge of threat to his tone. Normally Clint would object to the possessive behavior, but right now all he feels is grateful.

Well, maybe a little turned on too, but Clint doesn't have time to examine that right now.

Valerie's eyes are hazy. She blinks. "Forgive me," she says. "I wasn't expecting him to be so close to his cycle. He's very ripe." 

Bucky relaxes his shoulders. “I’m sure you can understand why I’d be protective. I’m not one for sharing.”

“Of course,” Valerie says. "Why don't you let me make it up to you? Please join me in the drawing room.” She leans in to add conspiratorially, “It’s where we keep the good wine.”

It's at this moment Valerie's shadow in blue speaks up. "Mistress," she says, so quiet Clint barely catches it. “May I be excused?"

"Hush." Valerie digs her acrylic claws into her wrist and the girl whines. "You can hold it, girl."

"I need to go too," Clint says and realizes a moment too late it's the wrong thing to do. Everyone close by is staring at him with various expressions of irritation. Shit, had he been too loud? Clint licks his lips and tries again, "Sorry. It's only that I don't know where the restroom is and it'd be nice if someone could show me." Clint feels the burn of too many eyes on him. "If that'd be alright, sir. Ma'am."

Bucky grips the back of his neck and forces Clint's head down. "Mind your manners," he pauses, squeezing hard to drive the point home, "And that'll be fine."

"Yes, sir," Clint says, eyes downcast.

Bucky pets his thumb under Clint's ear, careful and small. "Good boy," he murmurs, timbre warm, and, well--

Clint's going to have a lot of new kinks to work through when he gets home, apparently.

Valerie isn't warm at all when she turns to her omega and snaps, "Well? You heard the man. Get on with it." The girl jumps, then springs into action. Clint's hand is in hers and she's already tugging him away when Valerie calls after them, "Don't dally!"

She weaves them through the crowd effortlessly and goes up no less than two flights of stairs before they push through a door marked, 'Omegas only'. She drops his hand the second they get inside and makes a beeline for the stall. There's a clang and the sound of her pissing, followed by a relieved sigh, and Clint can't stop himself from laughing.

The girl squeaks. "I'm so sorry," she says from behind the door. "That was crass. I'm usually not this indelicate, I swear."

"No worries." Clint crosses his arms and leans back against the sink. "It's just you and me. Be as crass as you like."

A pause. "Didn't you have to use the restroom?" 

"Nah," Clint admits, studying the elaborate light fixture in the center of the room. Who the hell puts a chandelier in the bathroom? "It didn't look like your mistress wanted to let you go, so I figured I'd help."

"Oh." There's a shuffling and a flush. The door swings open and she peeks around it. "Thank you, sir."

Clint smiles. "Call me Chris."

"Chris." Her lips twitch up as she makes her way to the adjacent sink. She turns the faucet on and starts scrubbing her hands. "I'm Emily."

Emily's a slip of a woman and Clint would bet money she isn't a day over twenty one. She's got giant green eyes and long, wispy blonde hair that falls in waves all the way down to her waist. 

Emily clears her throat. "Can I ask you a question?" She asks, drying her hands on a paper towel. Clint nods and Emily gestures to the scar on his neck. "Did your alpha do that to you?"

Clint lays a hand over where he knows the mark is. "No. A different alpha did that a long time ago," he admits. "I was very young."

Emily looks horrified. "That's awful," she says and there is so much pity in her eyes that Clint has to look away. "At least you don't have to worry about things like that anymore." She's smiling again, a real one this time. "Your alpha seems smitten with you. I can tell he takes very good care of you and your friend."

"Mmhm." Clint's eyes linger on the angry red and purple bruising on the other omega's neck. It's mostly hidden behind the lace of her dress, but some of it is visible over the neckline. It looks fresh, like it'd been done only hours ago. "Did your alpha do that to you?" 

He already knows the answer. She smells vaguely like lemon cakes, but it's overwhelmed by Valerie's campfire smell.

Emily brushes her hair over her shoulder, effectively shielding the bruises from view. "It's an honor to wear the marks of my mistress." It sounds practiced. Flat.

It makes every protective instinct inside of him surge to life. Clint decides then and there he's busting Emily out of this place at the end of the night, mission be damned. 

It'll be easy. Clint's always been good at multitasking.

"C'mon," Clint says, tangling their fingers together. "We'd better get back before they send out a search party."

They make their way through the masses, still hand in hand. It's old fashioned, a throwback to when omegas traveled in packs for safety, but Clint finds he doesn't mind all the hand holding. Eventually Emily leads him to a discreet door that's tucked inside a storage closet, of all things.

The room behind the door is dimly lit and the walls are covered in dark paneling. There are at least a dozen different alphas, most of them grey and wrinkled, scattered on overstuffed couches. That's all fine and dandy, but the thing that gives Clint pause is what's on the floor. Next to the alphas are actual, honest to God _kneeling_ _pads._

Omegas haven't been expected to kneel in public since the Victorian era. Christ, these guys are fucking weirdos.

Emily drops his hand and makes her way to Valerie, who's sitting next to Bucky and talking animatedly to the whole room. Natasha's next to him on the floor, cheek leaned against his thigh and looking content as Bucky runs his fingers through her hair. 

Bucky doesn't glance up when Clint gets close, just snaps his fingers and points to the empty kneeling pad on his other side. Clint hurries to comply, dropping to his knees on the fluffy cushion. It takes a moment to settle, but eventually he finds a position where he thinks he can keep circulation in his legs.

There's chatter all around them, mostly about the merits of the Traditional Family Values Foundation. It's sexist and homophobic and most of all, just plain boring. It's not long before Clint is counting wood planks on the floor to pass the time. When he makes it to plank number two hundred and three, Clint decides to get more comfortable and leans his weight on Bucky's leg, head resting against his knee.

Natasha's doing the same thing, so it's probably fine.

Bucky holds a fancy cold cut directly in front of Clint's lips. Clink squints at it, reaches a hand out with a quiet, "Thank you, sir," but then--

"Hands down, Chris," Bucky says, stern but not unkind.

Clint pauses, hands stuck in limbo before he resettles them in his lap. He's confused until he catches sight of Valerie pushing a cube of cheese into Emily's mouth.

Hand feeding. They're actually hand feeding their omegas. Clint's not sure why that surprises him. Everything about this party is like some sort of dystopian horror novel where omegas never won their rights.

Still, it bears repeating. This whole thing is fucking creepy.

But there's nothing to be done for it now. Clint leans forward and takes the slice of meat in his mouth delicately, only grazing Bucky's gloved fingers slightly in the exchange.

"Good," Bucky says and Clint feels warm all over. He watches through his lashes as Bucky selects a grape and feeds it to Natasha, who takes it primly. She's so artful about it that Clint catches multiple alphas staring at her while she chews daintily. 

Natasha looks at him and barely quirks the corner of her mouth. Clint reads it as_ , 'See what I did there?'. _Clint doesn't roll his eyes, no matter how much he wants to, and decides to be that graceful when it's his turn again.

Except he's not. Clint can't tell if Bucky's fucking with him or just not paying attention, but when he tries to take a bite out of an offered mini quiche Bucky presses in too far and Clint can't avoid slicking his tongue across Bucky's fingers. Bucky uses those fingers to pin down Clint's tongue, taps it twice, then pulls away.

What the hell?

Bucky feeds Natasha a bit of cake next and he's much more careful about it. It's minuscule, the perfect size for Natasha to grab prettily with her teeth, no mess at all. Meanwhile, Clint's still chewing his monster portion of mini quiche and struggling not to get crumbs everywhere.

It might be his imagination, but he thinks Natasha's trying to hold back a smirk.

Then it's Clint's turn again and the piece Bucky presents to him is humongous. He opens his mouth to whisper a complaint but Bucky doesn't ease up, just nudges the sugary treat against Clint's lips until he opens wide enough to accommodate it. Once he's taken the cake all the way in his mouth, Bucky hooks a finger in and tugs at the inside of his cheek.

Yeah, okay, Bucky's definitely fucking with him. Maybe Natasha too, judging by the way she's biting back a grin.

Clint starts chewing but gets distracted when Bucky swipes a thumb over his bottom lip. It comes away covered in frosting. "Wouldn't want to waste it," Bucky says, casual. He keeps his eyes trained on Clint as he takes his thumb between his teeth and flicks his tongue against it, chasing the icing. 

Clint can't look away from the little flashes of pink as Bucky cleans the mess off his finger. It's so fucking hot that he's not convinced his brain isn't going to melt right out of his ears.

"You spoil them," Valerie says, effectively breaking Clint out of his trance.

"Maybe," Bucky concedes. "But they've been very good for me lately."

"I can see why'd you'd want to reward them." Valerie glances around before leaning in closer. "There's another room I'd like to show you, Mr. Fisher. If you're interested."

"Oh?" Bucky asks, then jokes, "Is it inside another closet?"

"Not at all," Valerie laughs. "It is private though. It's where we hold a very…," she pauses. Her smile turns sharp. "..._ special _ sort of auction."

Clint doesn't look up, but he starts paying closer attention.

Bucky scratches behind Clint's ear. "Special how?"

"The merchandise is quite unique," she says and Clint feels uneasy. "I mustn't say more, it would ruin the surprise."

"Well, you've definitely piqued my interest." Bucky stands and Valerie does the same. "Lead the way."

They follow Valerie and Emily through a series of hallways, turning so many different times that a lesser spy might lose track. With each step Clint grows more apprehensive. This is too obvious. It's textbook bad guy protocol. 

No one is actually this conspicuous, right?

Natasha is taking small, measured steps, hanging back farther than called for. She's got her head down, but her hands stay loose at her sides, ready to go for her gun if needed. 

Looks like she's got a bad feeling about this too.

The corridor ends abruptly with a red door on one side and a grey one on the other. "The bidding floor is this way," Valerie says, jerking her chin towards the door on the left. "No owned omegas allowed, I'm afraid."

Bucky frowns. "Where do you expect me to leave them?"

Valerie gestures to the door on the right. "Emily will take them to a private waiting room." Bucky's mouth turns down farther. "It's safe. Owned omegas only," she assures. "It's very opulent. They won't want for anything."

They're here to find irrefutable evidence that the Traditional Family Values Foundation has their hands in omega trafficking. From a mission standpoint, this is better than they could have hoped for. Valerie is playing right into their hand and all they have to do to catch her is split up and let Bucky record the auction.

And it's not like Bucky can't take care of himself. He's the Winter Soldier for Christ's sake, of course he can take care of himself. But the idea of sending him into that room alone makes Clint's heart race for all the wrong reasons. He doesn't want Bucky to go where he can't follow, where he and Natasha won't be able to watch his back.

But there's not anything he can do to stop it, not without blowing their cover.

"Alright," Bucky says. "As long as they're looked after."

Clint stands stock-still, not wanting Bucky to go but not knowing what to do about. He's halfway through the red door before Clint panics and says, "Alpha, wait!"

Clint's not even sure he's going to do it until he has his lips smashed against Bucky's. Bucky's momentarily stunned, too blindsided to do anything but take it and that's alright, that's _ fine. _All that matters is that Clint can worm a hand under Bucky's suit jacket and trace letters against the fabric of his shirt, right over his heart.

_ C A R E F U L _

When they break away Bucky is staring at him, mouth flushed with a look in his eyes that Clint can't get a read on. Clint licks his lips and loosens his grip on Bucky's dress shirt. Before he can open his mouth to apologize, Bucky crowds him up against the door jamb and crashes their lips back together.

Bucky's not passive anymore. He kisses Clint like he's helpless to it, like taking Clint apart is the most important thing he'll ever do. Clint melts, makes a noise that he'll probably be embarrassed about later, and Bucky sneaks a hand under his shirt to trace shapes along the jut of his hip.

_ Y O U T O O _

"You'll have to forgive him, Valerie," Bucky says once they pull apart again. He doesn't take his eyes off Clint, keeps petting his fingers over his hip. "Being this close to estrous makes him needy."

"So it would seem," Valerie says, mouth thin. "Still, we'd better be on our way or they'll start the bidding without us."

Bucky dips his head to nip right behind Clint's ear. From the way he's got them angled it looks a lot closer to his neck than it actually is. "Behave," he says, and Clint feels the smile where it's pressed against his skin.

Clint wants to laugh but says, "Yes, sir," instead.

The two alphas disappear behind the red door, leaving Emily, Natasha, and Clint behind. "We're just through here," Emily says, fumbling to get the key in the lock. 

Natasha shoots him a look behind Emily's back. "You're looking a little rumpled there, Chris," she comments. Clint has the decency to blush and goes to tuck his shirt back into his pants.

"It's my heat," Clint lies, because Emily's still right there, but Natasha's knowing half smile has his ears burning.

"Got it!" Emily says triumphantly as the door springs open. The room on the other side is pitch black. "Oh shoot, can you help me find the light switch?" She sounds flustered. "I always forget where it is. We hardly ever have to use this room anymore."

"It's fine," Clint says, trying his best to be reassuring. The poor girl's nerves are rattled enough as it is. He enters the room and feels along one wall while Natasha goes for the other.

The room is larger than Clint had imagined. It feels like it takes forever but eventually he finds the switch, on the back wall of all places. "Got it." Clint flicks on the light and turns just in time to see Emily standing back out in the hallway, the door already swinging closed.

She doesn't look so helpless now. She's standing at her full height, head held high with a dark gleam in her eyes. Emily stares straight at them and flashes Clint a shark-like smile, then says--,

_ "Hail Hydra." _

When the door clicks shut the air around them pulses and Clint's in-ear hearing aids/comms emit a high pitched shrieking sound. He yelps, hands flying up to cover his ears, but the noise is already fading to a dull ringing.

"Fuck," Clint hisses, uncovering his ears. "Nat?"

"I'm fine," she answers and Clint's relieved that he can still hear her. She's got a hand to her left ear, fiddling with her comms. "Widow requesting back up." She moves her fingers across the grooves, manually switching channels as she repeats the phrase over and over. "Does anyone copy?"

After a few more seconds of no response Natasha's cursing too. "It's still on," she says, "But it's not working right. I think they scrambled the frequencies."

Clint already at the lock, trying to figure out how to work it open. From this side there isn't a keyhole, only a thumbprint scanner. "Shit, shit, shit," Clint says, fighting back his nerves. "She said, she said--,"

"Hail Hydra," Natasha says, mouth grim. "I heard her too." She lifts her skirts and pulls the gun from her thigh holster. "Stand back." She doesn't give him more than a few seconds to move before she's firing two rounds into the thumb print scanner. 

Nothing shatters and the bullets stay embedded in the top glass. "Bullet proof," Clint says, his stomach sinking.

"I was afraid of that." Natasha re-holsters her gun. "We'll have to find another way out."

The room has concrete floors and there's no furniture to speak of. Clint swallows down the dread he feels at the thought of Bucky at Hydra's mercy, because he'll be no use to anybody if he's fretting over it.

There's only one way out that isn't through the door. "Do you think you could fit?" Clint asks, pointing to the ceiling vent above them. It's ridiculously small, too tiny for Clint to even think about shoving his shoulders through. 

Natasha chews at her bottom lip. "Help me with my dress."

Clint doesn't bother trying to undo the intricate satin buttons, pulling his knife and just cutting the damn thing off her instead. Natasha doesn't complain and when it falls she steps out of the heap, pulling off her heels as she goes. She hesitates, then leaves her gun in the pile as well.

He crouches enough for Natasha to use his thighs as a foothold on her way up to his shoulders. Clint grunts as he straightens, bracing his hands on her knees to keep her stable. She gets to work, pulling a bobby pin from her hair and using it to undo the screws holding the grate up.

It comes down with a clang. She stretches onto her tip toes and Clint sways with the movement to keep balance. Natasha swears. "I can't reach." She looks down at him, a crease between her brows. "Give me a boost."

Clint takes her feet in his hands and extends his arms as far as they'll go. It's enough, but just barely. Natasha scrambles into the vent and disappears into the dark.

"Toss me my gun."

Clint complies, waits until he's sure she's caught it before calling, "Take mine too," and pitching his own firearm after her.

Silence. Then eventually, "You should keep it. In case Emily comes back."

Clint shakes his head. "You'll need it more." He digs his fingernails into his palms. "Be careful, Nat."

Natasha doesn't answer.

Clint waits.

*

There's a shuffling on the other side of the door and Clint braces himself for the worst, but it's Natasha who pushes through. "Nat." He loosens his grip on the knife.

She doesn't answer straight away, and that's his first clue that something's wrong. She's got a hand braced against her side, covering expansive red marks over her ribs. He pries her hand back to look at it. "Not broken, just bruised."

"Okay," he says, even though he knows she's lying. He eases the gun from her spare hand and checks the magazine. Four bullets left. He checks the chamber. One live round. "What am I dealing with out there?"

"I took out everyone in the hallway. There weren't as many as I expected. Seems like a skeleton crew." Natasha is taking small, measured breaths. The hand over her side is trembling. "I didn't see Emily or Valerie." 

"Alright." Clint passes her his knife. "Are you with me?"

Natasha smiles and it's only a little strained. "Always."

The hallway is a bloodbath. There's just shy of a dozen people scattered across the floor, their black and blue clothing covered in blood. Clint has to shove a corpse away from the red door just to get it open. The room's sole occupant is on the other side of a glass barrier and slumped in the corner, metal arm limp with the other one chained to the wall above his head.

"** _\--onging_ **."

"Bucky," Clint says, his knees suddenly weak. _ He's okay _ , Clint thinks. _ He's okay. _

Bucky's head jerks up and he doesn't look relieved to see them at all. "N-no," he stammers, jerking harder against the metal around his wrist. "You can't be here."

_ " _ ** _Rusted_ ** _ ." _

"Don't be an idiot," Clint says, already at the door of the cell. It's another stupid, goddamn fingerprint scanner. Clint fires a round into it, but like the other one the bullet stays lodged in the top glass and doesn't penetrate the technology below it.

"Natasha," Clint starts. "I need the knife. Maybe one of the fingers outside will wor--,"

"You have to go," Bucky interrupts. He sounds desperate. His eyes are wide and he's yanking so violently against the chain Clint's worried he'll dislocate his shoulder. "You need to leave. Now."

"Wha--,"

"** _Furnace_ **."

"Clint." He turns and Natasha is as pale as a ghost. "Shoot the speakers. Right now."

Clint doesn't have to be told twice. He aims and shoots the three in the ceiling in quick succession, one right after the other.

"** _Daybreak_ **." 

There's one on Bucky's side of the room. Clint fires, but the bullet gets stuck in the glass. He pulls the trigger again, even though he knows it's empty, then snarls and hurls the whole thing at the barrier. 

It clatters uselessly to the ground.

"They're trigger words," Natasha says. "Clint, if we can't stop them, James will--,"

"** _Seventeen_ **."

"--revert back to the Winter Soldier."

Clint's heart is in his throat. "The knife, Tasha," Clint says. "We need to--,"

"Go." Bucky isn't even pulling at his restraints anymore. "Please, I can't, I can't--,"

"Shut _ up, _" Clint hisses. "We're not leaving you."

"** _Benign_ **."

"Clint," Bucky says and he sounds so small. Scared. "I don't want to hurt you again."

"You won't hurt me, Bucky." There's a lump in his throat and no matter how hard he tries, Clint can't swallow it down. "I know you won't."

"** _Nine_ **."

"Natalia." Bucky's shaking now, full body tremors that rattle the chains. "Please."

"Clint," Natasha says but Clint's not listening, fingers scrambling against the knife as he tries in vain to pry up the glass around the thumb print scanner. "Clint, look at me."

She cups his face in her hands and tilts his head down until he has no choice but to look at her. He's mortified to realize his eyes are wet and that's dumb, that's _ so fucking stupid, _because crying isn't going to solve anything.

"If we're still in here when the sequence finishes, we're not getting out at all." Her eyes bore into his. "We've got to go now. There's not going to be another chance."

"I can't leave him." Clint says, eyes still hot.

"You can't save him either," she answers. "Not like this."

"** _Homecoming_ **."

"This is our only chance." Clint tries to turn back towards Bucky, but Natasha holds tight, won't let him look anywhere but her. "We'll get him back, Clint, I swear. But we have to go right now or they'll have us too."

"Natasha, _ I can't _ ," Clint says, because it's true. He can't leave Bucky here, chained to the wall like an animal. _ He just can't. _

"You can," Natasha says. "You can, you just have to trust me."

"** _One_ **."

In the end that's what breaks him. Natasha would never lie, not to him. 

"Okay," Clint says, quick, before he can change his mind. He breathes out and it feels his heart breaking. Clint glances at Bucky, but he's got his head turned away from them, so he doesn't see it. "Okay, let's go."

They run and don't look back.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"** _Freight car_ **."

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, that was a LONG time to wait for an update. In my defense, it's longer?
> 
> Thank y'all for sticking with me and I hope this chapter hit the spot! ♥️


	10. The Way We Learned to Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't panic, chapter 11 is already up!

_ Three months after the biting experiments, Clint finally corners Steve in the gym. _

_ "Hawkeye," Steve greets, catching the punching bag on its way back. He's got dark circles under his eyes, so busy splitting time between Bucky and the Avengers that he hasn't been sleeping much. "What's up?" _

_ "Cap." Clint gnaws at his lip. "I've figured out how we can move Bucky in." _

_ "Yeah?" Steve's strained smile turns genuine in an instant. "Well, let's hear it." _

_ Clint scuffs his shoe against the tiles. "You won't like it." _

_ Steve raises a brow. "It can't be worse than what we're doing now." _

_ Clint scuffs his shoe on the floor again. It makes an obnoxious squeaking sound. "I need you to bite me. Probably more than once." _

_ "Probably?" The way Steve's got his mouth screwed up goes a long way towards saying his thoughts on the matter. "How many times are we talking?" _

_ "I don't know," Clint says. "As many times as it takes for me to get used to it." _

_ Steve clears his throat. "I--um, I don't think that's how it works." _

_ "No?" Clint snaps. "You got a lot of experience with this sort of thing that I don't know about?" _

_ "Easy!" Steve puts his hands up to show he means no harm. "I'm not nay-saying, I just don't get it. It's not like snake venom, you can't build an immunity." _

_ "But it is a chemical reaction," Clint points out. "Like with booze, or pills. Maybe I can't build an immunity, but I can build a tolerance." _

_ "I'm not sure it's a good idea." Steve looks down and rubs at the back of his neck. "I didn't have a lot of control last time. I could hurt you." _

_ "Better you than him," Clint shoots back and Steve flinches. _

_ "He's getting better," Steve says, quiet and aimed at the floor. "He's horrified about what he did to you, Clint." _

_ "I don't care." And maybe that's mean, but honestly? Clint doesn't give a damn about what Bucky Barnes feels. "You bite me until I can break free. Until I can defend myself. That's the only way I'll sign off on letting your buddy live in the tower with us." _

_ Steve crumbles, his great frame sagging like Clint's cut all his strings. "Let me think on it?" _

_ "Think on it all you want." Clint says. "But that's the best offer you'll get from me." _

_ * _

_ Steve finds him in the living room two days later. _

_ "Okay." He says, plopping down on the couch next to Clint, looking worn thin and just plain tired. "Okay, I've got some rules." _

_ "Yeah?" Clint asks, sitting up a little straighter. "Like what?" _

_ Steve holds up a finger. "Number one. No more than one bite per day." _

_ "That'll take forever." Clint grumbles. _

_ "I don't care," Steve says. "No more than once a day. And you _ ** _will_ ** _ tell me if you need a break." _

_ "Yes, dad," Clint replies, biting back a laugh. _

_ "Hush," Steve says, trying to hide a grin. "Number two. Every session will be monitored. Friday's fine, but I want a visual check in with an Avenger at least once an hour." _

_ Clint pulls a face. "Don't you think that's overkill?" _

_ "Nope." Steve's smile goes tight. "Last one. If I think it's affecting you negatively we call the whole thing off." _

_ "I know my limits." Clint glares, but Steve doesn't raise to the bait. "I'm not a kid. I don't need you telling me how much I can or can't handle." _

_ "You gave me an ultimatum, so this one's mine," Steve says. "You follow the rules, Clint, or we don't do this at all." _

_ "God, you're so stubborn," Clint mumbles, already caving. "Fine, fine, we'll do it your way." _

_ Steve grins, lopsided and not the least bit repentant. _

_ * _

_ The first time, it takes a full hour for Clint to come back from that soft place and Steve won't let him out of his arms for another one after. _

_ * _

_ The second is the same. So are the third and fourth times afterwards. _

_ * _

_ The fifth time is not any different and something's got to give._

_ "This isn't working," Clint says, quiet and still tucked away under Steve's arm. _

_ "Tell me about it." Steve brushes careful fingers over the bruises on Clint's neck, checking for unnecessary damage. "We're gonna have to change our game plan." _

_ Clint hums, still too warm and pliant to contribute much. _

_ Steve ducks his head to nose at the bite mark. Clint allows it, because if he's learned anything from all this it's that Captain America is a fucking sap, and being sweet makes Steve feel better about this whole thing. "So I was thinking, maybe we should start smaller." _

_ "I'm listening," Clint says. _

_ "Good," Steve whispers and Clint has to close his eyes against the chemical high that word threatens to induce. "I think instead of you trying to break away from the bite right at the start, we should focus on getting you back to--." Steve waves a hand over him. "Well, you, I guess." _

_ "Yeah, that's a great idea," Clint huffs. "Except for the fact that I don't have the first clue how to do it." _

_ "Don't be snippy," Steve chides. "Tell me your favorite song." _

_ "Huh?" _

_ "Are these things on?" Steve teases, tapping the part of his hearing aid that loops over his ears. _

_ "Ass," Clint says with no heat. "It's not my fault you couldn't wait another twenty minutes to have a strategy meeting. My brains are still mush." _

_ There's a lull in the conversation where they don't say anything at all and Clint just listens to the steady sound of Steve breathing. "Jackson," Clint murmurs eventually, sitting up and detangling himself from Steve's arms. "My favorite song is Jackson." _

_ "Jackson." Steve props himself up on his elbow and watches Clint stretch. "Okay. I want you to listen to it tonight. Sing it in the shower. Play it on repeat until you're sick of it," Steve instructs. "And then tomorrow after I bite you, I want you to sing it to me. Or hum it, if that's all you can do." _

_ Clint relaxes back against the headboard. "Not sure that'll work, but I'll give it my best shot." _

_ "I'm sure you'll hit your mark. We don't call you Hawkeye for nothing," Steve quips and the joke is so bad Clint's forced to smack him in the face with a pillow. _

_ * _

_ It takes three more days for Clint to actually succeed. It's not singing, not really, more of a tuneless mumble, but he gets the words out nonetheless. _

_ Steve takes him out for ice cream afterwards and neither one of them can stop smiling. _

_ * _

_ They've been at it for a month when Steve changes the game. _

_ Clint's gotten pretty good at navigating the fog in that time. Everything is still fuzzy and the overwhelming need to be wrapped up in Steve is always there, but it only takes him about ten minutes to start in with Jackson most days. _

_ Today is no exception. Clint's sitting with his back flush to Steve's chest, still trembling from the bite when he starts. "We got married in a fever--," _

_ "Clint," Steve says, arm like a steel bar across his belly. "Hush." _

_ Clint squirms, turns to hide face in Steve's shoulder. He tries to keep going, but the thought of disappointing Steve has him stammering. "H-hotter than a--a pepper--a pepper sprout--," _

_ "I said be quiet," Steve snaps. _

_ Clint's breathing hiccups. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chants, squeezing his eyes shut to try and stave off the anxiety. _

_ It doesn't work. Steve's upset and that's the worst thing imaginable. _

_ "Hush," Steve says again, softer this time. "Just hush, Clint." _

_ * _

_ Another week goes by and Clint still can't ignore a direct order from Steve. _

_ * _

_ "Maybe this is as good as it gets," Natasha says one night between episodes of Forensic Files. _

_ "Maybe." Clint tugs at his shirt to cover the yellows and purples that color his neck. "But I'm not ready to give up yet." _

_ Clint drops the conversation. Natasha lets him. _

_ * _

_ Another week. Still no progress. _

_ * _

_ "Realistically," Steve says. "I don't think you're ever going to be able to fight me off." _

_ "Yeah," Clint answers and he can't even bring himself to mad. They're laying flat on their backs and side by side, far enough out from the bite that they don't cling to each other, but not so far that they can detangle their fingers. "Pretty sure that's not gonna happen." _

_ "Let's take a break." Steve squeezes his hand. "Give me a few days. I'll think of something." _

_ Clint squeezes back. _

_ * _

_ "Heads up!" _

_ Clint catches the mystery object on reflex, fumbling with his other hand to stop the treadmill. "What the hell, cap?" _

_ "That's how you're going to beat me," Steve tells him, looking extremely pleased with himself. "It's a lower dosage of the sedative they use on the Hulk." _

_ "Huh." Clint wipes the sweat out of his eyes, then squints down at the syringe. "So that's it then? I'm just supposed to tranq Bucky before he bites me?" _

_ "He won't bite you." Clint barely suppresses an eye roll. "But if for some reason he did, we can't count on you sticking him before it happens. So we're going to practice doing it after you've already been bitten." _

_ Clint blinks. "You want me to knock you out?" He asks, nose scrunched up. _

_ "Don't give me that face." Steve flicks his nose and in retaliation Clint sticks his tongue out at him. You know, because he's an adult. "Besides, shouldn't you be excited? You get to tell everybody you put down Captain America." _

_ Clint smirks. "I don't need a tranquilizer to take you down, cap." _

_ "Oh yeah?" Steve grins and jerks his thumb towards the practice matts. "Okay, tough guy, show me your moves." _

_ Clint grins back. "Gladly." _

_ * _

_ Three days later and they're back in Steve's bed. _

_ Clint's so content that he doesn't want to find his way back from that muted place, not really, but he knows he has to. He blinks his eyes open and stares at the clock on the wall. _

_ 1:23 pm. _

_ It's only been five minutes. _

_ Steve makes a low, rumbling noise and licks at his neck. Clint shudders and pushes back into the warm chest at his back. Steve's happy and that's, that's good. That's crucial. It's vital, making sure Steve is happy with him. Clint sighs, breathes in well oiled leather and lets his eyes drift shut. _   
  


_ Wait. _

  
  


_ Isn't he meant to be doing something? _

_ The words to Jackson are on the tip of his tongue, ingrained from weeks of routine, but Clint bites his lip before they can escape. Then he bites down harder, because the sting of his teeth help cut through the fuzziness in his brain. _

_ Right. He's supposed to try and stick Steve with the tranquilizer hidden under the pillow. _

_ Clint starts to turn, but Steve stops him, fingers digging viciously into his arms. "Don't," Steve says and it sounds strained. "Don't move." He scrapes his teeth over Clint's neck in warning. _

_ Clint stops, because he's got a better chance of turning himself into a unicorn than disobeying Steve right now. _

_ The clocks ticks on. _

_ "Steve." Clint licks at his lips. "Steve, I want to look at you." _

_ Steve's hand stills on Clint's stomach. "Why?" _

_ "I want to see you." Clint curls in on himself, tries be small and helpless. "Please? I really want to look at you. You're so handsome." _

_ If Nat ever sees this she'll never let him hear the end of it. _

_ It's doing something for Steve though. The bergamot blooms so bright he can almost taste it. "Okay," Steve says, voice rough. "Go ahead and turn around." _

_ "Thank you," Clint says, honeysuckle sweet. He turns slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements and Steve stares at him, eyes flitting back and forth like he can't figure out where to look first. _

_ "Look at you," Clint murmurs, reaching up to trace his thumb over Steve's cheekbones. "You've got to be the best looking guy I've ever seen," Clint says and Steve eats it right up, hand unsteady when he grabs at Clint's hip. "And you take such good care of me. How'd I get so lucky?" _

_ Clint dips his hand under the pillow and he must take too long fumbling after the syringe, because Steve snatches his elbow to stop him from moving. "What are you doing?" Steve asks, grip hard and unyielding. _

_ "I just want to feel you," Clint says quickly, glancing up at Steve through his lashes. "Please, Steve, let me touch you." _

_ Steve groans and before he knows it Clint's on his back and pinned down under two hundred plus pounds worth of super soldier. Steve kisses him, searing and just the right side of rough, and suddenly Clint's having quite a bit of trouble focusing on the task at hand. He might not feel more than friendly affection towards Steve, but it turns out he's a damn good kisser and, well, Clint's only human. _

_ Friday flashes the lights to signal she's sent out an SOS and that's enough to distract him from Steve and his very, very talented mouth. _

_ Clint drives the needle into his neck. _

_ Steve hisses, reaches back to paw at the injection site but Clint doesn't let him, hikes up his leg and uses it to shove Steve clean off the bed. Clint rolls in the opposite direction and hits the ground running. His legs are wobbly, but somehow he makes it to the door before Steve can stop him. _

_ He keeps going until he runs into Sam. _

_ * _

_ Steve stumbles out of his bedroom hours later, looking groggy and rumpled. "Good morning, sleeping beauty," Clint says, glancing his way before looking back to draw a card from the pile. _

_ Steve makes a confused sound and rubs at his face. "What happened?" _

_ "What happened is that Hawkeye outfoxed you." Sam explains, waggling his eyebrows at Steve. "Never would have pegged you for the sort of guy that'd fall for a honeypot. Got any threes?" _

_ Steve blinks. "I--huh? What?" _

_ "It was an A+ kiss," Clint says casually, passing Sam a card. "A real toe curler." _

_ Steve blushes clean up to his ears. "Wait," he says, eyes widening when everything finally clicks into place. "Does that mean you did it? You got me?" _

_ "Yep," Clint says and Steve looks so excited he's practically glowing. "Go tell your pal to pack his bags and bring him home, cap." _

_ * _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget that the next chapter is already up and ready to save you from cliffhanger hell!


	11. The Night I Let You Love Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Inktastic1711](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inktastic1711/pseuds/Inktastic1711) and [Mikayla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theholyfandoms/pseuds/Theholyfandoms) over at at [Winterhawklibrary](https://winterhawklibrary.tumblr.com/) for being so patient and helping me fine tune this thing. Y'all are saints!

When they get back to the tower Steve's already suited up and waiting in the lobby. His eyes dart to Clint's split lip before shifting to Natasha, who's still clad in only her underwear and covered in purpling bruises. "What happened?"

"I'm fine. Nat's ribs are--,"

_ "Bruised," _ Natasha grits out. "They're bruised."

"Yep. Just bruised." Clint says and Natasha leans against him that much harder. "The party was a setup, Cap." 

Steve freezes. His eyes dart to the door and the color drains from his face when he doesn't find anyone else behind them. "Where's Bucky?"

"Hydra has him," Natasha says. The bergamot goes sour and Steve grips the strap of his shield hard enough for the leather to creak. "It was an ambush. They used a trigger sequence--,"

The lights flare and the room is plunged into darkness.

The backup generators sputter to life and the emergency lights flicker on. Natasha's expression is pinched and Clint's not sure if it's from pain or confusion. "Friday?" Steve asks sharply. "What's going on?"

"Capt--," Friday tries, the AI's voice barely audible. There's a flash of lightning outside, followed by a crash of thunder, but the sudden change in weather shouldn't affect the tower. It doesn't even run on electricity, the whole outfit is powered by Tony's arc reactor technology. "Sergeant Barnes is disabling the tower's power so--," 

Friday's voice cuts out.

"Did she say Sergeant Barnes?" Clint's heart races. He doesn't understand it, not one bit, but somehow Bucky's _ here, _and if Bucky's here that means there's a chance.

They can get him back.

The speakers crackle. Friday's voice comes back long enough to say, "--basement level. He's destroying everythi--,"

Static. Then silence.

Steve's already tugging his cowl down from where it'd been pushed up into his hair. "Natasha, get to Wanda and Vision. They won't have any idea what's going on and Wanda isn't going to be able to protect herself this far gone in her cycle."

Natasha's out of Clint's arms between one heartbeat and the next. "Don't do anything stupid." She brushes her fingers against the back of his hand, then shoots Steve a pointed look. "Either one of you."

Then she's gone, a slip of pale skin and red hair disappearing behind the door that leads to the stairwell.

Steve watches intently, waiting until Natasha is out of earshot completely before turning to Clint. "I need you to go to your floor," he orders, all Captain America.

"Sure, to get my bow." And every tranq arrow he can get his hands on. "I'll meet you back here in ten."

Clint starts for the stairs but Steve stops him with a hand to his shoulder. "No. You need to get to your apartment and stay there. Lock the door behind you and don't leave until I give you the go ahead."

"What the hell?" Clint scowls, shaking his hand away violently. "He's my friend too, Steve. I'm not about to run and hide just so you can play savior. You can fuck right off with that bullshit."

"That's not what I'm doing," Steve says and he looks so hurt that for a moment Clint almost feels bad.

Almost.

"What good would locking the door do anyways? You don't think Bucky could get through it with, geez, I don't know, his _ metal fucking arm?" _

Steve's mouth thins into a hard line. "Then hide. We're wasting time, just stay out of sight and away from the vents."

He heads for the basement but Clint stalks forward and yanks him back before he can get away. "Why don't you want me with you?" Steve grimaces and Clint knows he's on the right track, so he keeps going. "Why don't you want Bucky to see me?"

"Clint," Steve says and it sounds resigned. Miserable. "Can't you do as you're told? Just this once?"

"Why don't you want me near the vents?" Clint presses, because there's something here that he's not getting, and whatever it is is important. Steve still doesn't answer. Clint takes a step closer to catch his gaze. "What aren't you telling me?"

Steve crumbles, shoulders sagging and for a moment he looks truly defeated. "It's your scent," he admits, head bowed. "I don't want Bucky to catch wind of it."

"Alright," Clint says, steady even though he feels anything but. He'd known that Steve and Bucky could smell something on him ever since that day in the living room, but this is the first time they've ever acknowledged it outside of that slip up. "What does my scent have to do with Bucky?"

"You smell like him." Steve looks up to flash him a tight smile and Clint's lungs don't feel right. "More like me now, but the gun powder's still there."

There's an elephant on his chest and the world is narrowing. "You knew," Clint whispers, horrified, and oh, he remembers now. That complicated expression Steve wore when Bucky asked if Clint knew him during the raid. The way Steve had buried his face in Clint's neck after that first bite and whispered,_ "You know you can tell me anything, right?" _

It was right in front of him the whole time. How could he be so stupid?

"Why didn't you say anything?" Clint asks, a little breathless because his lungs aren't cooperating. "You knew and you still let me lie to you." Steve's eyes are so blue, so genuine, and Clint doesn't understand at all. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I think a lot of things have happened to you that you didn't get much say in," Steve says and it's so true it _ hurts _. "And I didn't want this to be like that. I wanted you to tell me when you were ready."

There's a lot to unpack there but Clint's struggling to process it, because he's hyper fixated on what's being left unsaid. Because he knows Bucky can smell him, same as Steve, and that means, that means--

He'd always thought it was his face that was familiar to Bucky, that there was something about the way he looked that cut through the brainwashing and made Bucky halfway remember him, but that wasn't it at all, was it? Because everytime Bucky had asked, _ "Have we met?" _ or, _ "Do I know you?" _had been right after he'd had his nose buried in Clint's neck.

Bucky knew.

He'd always known.

Clint wants to throw up.

"Okay," is what he says instead, even though his stomach is churning. Clint breathes. In. Out. He pushes the impending breakdown back and locks it away deep inside his chest. All that matters right now is getting Bucky back, safe and sound. _ Then _ Clint can find a nice place to fall apart and not a moment sooner. "So you're afraid Bucky will catch my scent and bite me again."

"Exactly," Steve says, relief obvious. "Exactly. Now--,"

"But that won't happen," Clint argues. "Because Wanda doused me and her scent is strong enough to cover damn near anything."

"I can't risk it." Clint opens his mouth to argue but Steve beats him to it. "Please, Clint," he says, close to begging. "Just trust me. I'll bring him back, I swear."

In the end, that's what does him in. "Fine," Clint relents and Steve's answering sigh of relief sounds loud even as the storm outside picks up. "You get thirty minutes, Cap, and then I'm coming down there whether you want me to or not."

*

The hallway outside Clint's room is dark and ominous.

The emergency lights cast an eerie glow, making the familiar territory seem sinister. Clint fumbles at the electric door, unsure of how to get inside and more than a little on edge. He doesn't have to struggle too much though, because the power outage has triggered the fail safe. 

The door is already unlocked and half open.

Clint pushes inside and throws the deadbolt, then rests his head against the door. Fuck. _ Fuck. _Bucky and Steve are probably duking it out right now and what's he doing? Not a damn thing. 

But there's nothing to be done for it now. By Clint's estimate he's only got another twenty five minutes before he can go in guns blazing, so he ought to be ready. The living room is pitch black except for the glow of the emergency light in the kitchen. Clint presses his hand against the wall and follows it to the bedroom.

Once inside he makes a beeline for the dresser. Where’d he put it? He's pretty sure at one point he'd seen it shoved back under his underwear, but a quick search proves fruitless. Maybe it's in the nightstand?

Clint turns and the smell hits him before anything else.

_ Gun Powder. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Blood _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Grave Dirt. _

The lightning flashes and for one blinding moment Bucky Barnes is perfectly illuminated on the bed.

Clint's heart stutters as the light fades and everything goes black. "Bucky?" Clint asks, half convinced he’s hallucinating. “Is that you?”

"Who the hell is Bucky?" 

"You," Clint says, so relieved he could cry. "You're Bucky."

Bucky doesn't respond. The thunder rumbles and rain thrums steadily against the window pane. Clint shifts uneasily and the lightning flashes again.

Bucky's bare chested, his shirt tied like a makeshift sling to keep his metal arm close to his body. His face is blank and he is absolutely dripping with blood.

"Jesus," Clint says as the light vanishes once more. "Fuck, you're bleeding everywhere. Where are you hurt?"

Bucky grunts. "It's not my blood."

"Good." Clint blows out a breath. "That's good. Wh--,"

"Who sleeps in this bed?" 

Clint squints through the darkness and doesn't see anything at all. "I do," he answers eventually. "This is my apartment."

The room is quiet except for the tell-tale click of a handgun’s safety being switched off. "Don't lie to me," Bucky says. "Who sleeps in this bed?"

"I'm not lying." Clint puts his hand up and ducks his head, aiming for non-threatening and submissive. "That's my bed, I swear."

"Wrong." The gunshot rings out and Clint swears as the bullet whizzes past his head and buries itself in the wall behind him. "You stink like sugar. The omega who sleeps in this bed doesn't smell like that. Don't lie to me again."

"I'm not lying." Clint squeezes his eyes shut, heart in his throat. "Our friend scented me. She's the one that smells like sugar, not me."

Clint opens his eyes and suddenly he can see Bucky, because he's a hell of a lot closer. Bucky nudges the barrel of the gun under Clint's chin and keeps pushing until Clint has to crane his head back to get away from it. 

Bucky drags his nose over Clint's neck and inhales. "I can't smell anything else." He jams the gun harder against the underside of Clint's jaw. "I think you're lying to me," he says, soft and mean next to Clint's ear.

"I'm really not." Clint leans away from the gun, but it follows. "I can prove it to you."

The lightning flashes. Bucky's eyes burn into his. "How?"

“I could, um--,” and Clint must be taking too long because Bucky flips the gun around and bashes the butt of it against the side of Clint's head. Clint shouts, staggering to keep his footing but Bucky doesn’t let him regain his full height, reversing the gun and shoving the barrel against the spot he’d just struck.

“How,” Bucky starts, caressing the gun through Clint’s hair in a cruel mimicry of intimacy, “Can you prove it to me?”  
  
“Let me shower.” Clint’s head is pounding. He keeps his arms up and neck exposed, everything in his posture screaming _ omega _ and _ harmless. _ “Let me wash the other scent off. Then you'll know I'm not lying.”   
  
It doesn’t take more than a second for Bucky to make up his mind. “Up,” he orders, letting Clint straighten. Bucky flicks the gun towards the bathroom. “Walk.”   
  
Bucky marches Clint into the bathroom and the emergency light over the mirror makes it easy for Clint to find the taps and turn on the shower. It sputters to life, thank god, but Clint doesn’t have high hopes for the water heater. He toes off his shoes and pops the first button on his shirt.   
  
“Get in,” Bucky says.   
  
“I know, I know, just let me get my clothes off--,”   
  
Clint gasps, the pain sharp where Bucky smashes the pistol down against the back of his head. “I won't tell you again.”   
  
There’s not much choice so he climbs into the shower, clothes and all. The water is frigid and Clint yelps when he steps into the spray. Shit, shit, _ shit, _ it’s so fucking cold. Clint’s shoulders hunch up around his ears as he grabs at the unscented bar of soap, trying to protect himself from the icy temperature.   
  
“Wash,” Bucky orders from somewhere behind him. 

Clint grinds his teeth to keep from shouting, _ 'That's what I'm doing, asshole!' _and forces himself to relax. He runs the soap over his neck, scrubbing at his scent gland until his skin feels raw, then moves on to his chest. His clothes are soaked through now and clinging to him uncomfortably. He's trembling, full body shakes and frozen clean down to his bones. 

He plunges back under the spray, teeth chattering while the water rinses away the suds. There's a clatter and then Bucky's there too, corralling him against the shower wall and jerking Clint's head back by his hair. Clint hisses, blinking water from his eyes as Bucky shoves his face into Clint's neck.

Bucky's metal arm digs into Clint's stomach, useless and limp between them. Bucky noses around his throat and Clint endures it, lets Bucky sniff around as much as he needs to. He stares straight ahead, only blinking the water away when it gets to be too much. 

He knows what's coming.

The rough fingers in his hair loosen, turning gentle as they brush along the curve of his ear. "It's you," Bucky says, reverent. He inhales and blows the breath out slowly. Clint shivers. "It's really you."

"It's me," Clint says, something hysterical clawing its way up the inside of his chest. 

"They were giving me orders and I was ready to comply…," he trails off, chest swelling as he takes another breath. "But then I smelled you. On my clothes. In my hair. And I knew I had to find you."

Clint closes his eyes.

"They wouldn't let me go, so I killed them." Bucky swipes his tongue over the line of his neck and Clint squirms. Bucky's grasp on his arm turns vice-like, doesn't loosen it again until Clint stills. "They wouldn't let me find you and that was _ wrong _, because we were made to fit. Because I belong with you. I need, I need to--,"

"I know," Clint says, heartsick. Bucky's breathing hard, drawing great ragged breaths that puff hot across his skin. "It's alright, Bucky, you can let go."

Bucky sinks his teeth in and for a moment Clint gets well and truly lost.

His legs give out. Bucky manages to catch him with just one arm, but it's a near thing. He struggles to keep them upright before using the entirety of his bulk to pin Clint securely against the wall. Clint whimpers and Bucky shushes him, planting kisses over the spot he'd just bitten.

It's perfect, being pressed so close to Bucky. It's maybe the nicest he's ever felt. Definitely the safest. The shower is still going, water icy as it rains down on them, but that doesn't seem so important right now. The only thing that matters is the drag of Bucky's teeth, the way Clint's heart soars when he nips at the scar again. Clint whines, he--

Bucky shifts and the plates of his metal arm pinch the skin of Clint's stomach.

Clint latches onto the pain, screws his eyes shut and focuses on that one point of discomfort. It's hard work, especially with how Bucky is nuzzling into his neck, but he keeps at it, clawing his way back from that soft place until he can think through the fog once more.

"Bucky," Clint says, voice so quiet it can hardly be heard over the din of the shower. He tries again, louder this time. "Bucky, I'm cold."

Bucky pulls back, forehead creasing as he studies Clint. "Cold?"

"Yes." It's not even a lie. Now that Clint's broken through the bite's drugging effect he's freezing, barely holding back shivers. "So cold it hurts." He tilts his head and Bucky's breath catches, eyes darting down to the bruises he'd just left all over Clint's neck. "Can you fix it? Please?"

Bucky makes a small sound in the back of his throat and Clint knows he's won. Bucky's hand twitches against his arm. "I don't know if I can pick you up like this."

"But you're so strong," Clint says, appealing to that primal place Bucky has sunken to. It works like a charm. Bucky's enraptured, eyes glued to Clint's face and laser focused on every movement. "I know you can do it. You always take such good care of me."

Bucky's hand trembles as it travels down to the curve of Clint's thigh. He lifts and Clint wraps his legs around his waist, helping as best he can. There's a moment of weightlessness where Clint's sure they're going to fall, but Bucky finds his balance and carries him out of the shower on steady feet.

Clint loops his arms around Bucky and hides his face in his neck. The new position isn't comfortable with how the metal arm digs into him, but that's perfect. Clint shuts his eyes and concentrates on how the plates scrape against his stomach. 

It pulls him further from the bite's mist.

Bucky deposits him on the bed, wet clothes and all. He pulls the sheet up to Clint's chin, then finds where the comforter is crumpled on the floor and spreads that over him too. "...Better?" Bucky asks, hovering at the end of the bed and shifting from foot to foot.

"It's nice." Honestly it's awful, being buried under the covers with his clothes soaked through, but that's not the point. Clint frees a hand from the blankets and holds it out to Bucky. "It'd be better if you were in here with me though."

Bucky doesn't have to be told twice. He prowls up the bed and slips under the covers, manhandling Clint until he's rolled onto his side. Bucky settles in behind him and Clint's breathing goes funny when he splays a possessive hand over his stomach. Bucky mouths at his neck and a new wave of euphoria threatens to drag Clint back under.

He bites his split lip until it starts to bleed again. 

Clint reaches for his ears and Bucky tightens his grip to borderline painful. "I'm not going anywhere," Clint reassures. "Just taking out my hearing aids. They're all wet."

Bucky thumbs at the buttons on Clint's shirt. "Do they hurt?"

"Yes." A lie. They're uncomfortable at most. "It's awful."

Bucky loosens his hold and goes back to grazing his fingers up and down Clint's belly. "Okay," he says. "Take them out if they're bothering you."

Clint slowly starts for his ears again, half convinced Bucky will try to stop him, but he doesn't do anything except pepper the back of his neck with careful kisses, so Clint keeps going. He fishes one hearing aid out, then the other.

Everything's quiet.

Clint's heart is going a mile a minute as he reaches for the nightstand. The storm has passed and with it he's lost the light of the lightning flashes, so he can hardly see anything when he rifles through the drawer. Clint's fingers bump against his hearing aid case but he bypasses it, straining towards the back of the drawer and searching clumsily under a mess of takeout menus.

It's here.

Clint keeps his breathing measured as he grabs the tranquilizer. He settles back onto the bed and slowly turns in the circle of Bucky's arms until they're face to face. "Much better," Clint says. Bucky's chest rumbles in response, his fingers worming their way under Clint's shirt to draw nonsense patterns over the small of his back.

Clint wraps an arm around Bucky. He brings their mouths together slow and deliberate, uses every trick he knows to take Bucky apart. Bucky shivers, closes his eyes and kisses Clint so gently it's heartbreaking. 

Clint hopes that one day, if he's lucky, maybe he'll get to kiss Bucky for no other reason than just because he wants to. 

But today's not that day.

Clint plunges the needle into Bucky's shoulder and quick as a snake Bucky has him on his back, weight suffocating as his teeth cut into Clint's harder than ever before.

Clint closes his eyes and then--

He's gone.

*

Later, when Steve bursts in wide eyed and full of dread, Bucky will be unconscious and Clint will be staring blankly at the ceiling, his neck painted red and still very, very lost.

*

It takes three more days for Wanda's heat to subside. They keep Bucky sedated until she can get to him and untangle his mind, pulling the words out one by one.

*

Bucky doesn't want to see him.

Wanda removed all his trigger words, even the ones they hadn't known about, and Bucky and Steve have been holed up in their apartment ever since. Every time Clint knocks on the door Steve answers, looking remorseful as he tells him, _ "Today's not a good day," _ or, _ "He's just not ready to see you, Clint." _

Pepper's sweet about the whole thing, even though it's ruined her vacation. Her and Tony had just landed in Bora Bora when they'd gotten the call. They've been back for two days now and while the arc reactor is up and running, Friday's still inoperable.

"Stop worrying about it," Pepper says, sitting next to Clint under a shared blanket. Tony is swearing up a storm and DUM-E is whirling back and forth frantically, leaving seemingly random things at his feet. "It'll still be there in a few weeks. It's no trouble, really."

Clint hugs his portion of the blanket closer to himself. "Still sorry."

"You're a huge cockblock, Barton," Tony gripes, elbow deep in circuitry. 

Pepper sighs. "Tony. Be nice."

Tony continues his rant undeterred. "You owe me big time. I expect one favor, to be repaid at any time, day or night, no questions asked. Do you know how many swimsuits she packed?" He pauses, but only for dramatic effect because he doesn't give anyone a chance to answer. "Twelve. Each one skimpier than the last. One looked like it was just neon dental floss. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."

Clint starts to apologize but Tony holds a finger up to stop him. He splices two wires together and they spark spectacularly, the walls humming as the technology housed within comes back online. "Friday? You there?"

"I'm here," the AI answers. "It's good to have you back, boss."

Pepper's smiling and Tony is too, googles pushed up into his hair and looking all kinds of relieved. "You too, Friday. You too."

And Clint's glad Friday's back, honest, but it turns out she's a goddamn snitch_ , _which sucks. He's back at his apartment and halfway up the vent when she asks, "Should I let Sergeant Barnes know you're on your way, Agent Barton?"

Clint thumps his head against the interior of the air duct. "I don't suppose you could keep it a secret?"

"Afraid not." In her defense, she does sound apologetic about it.

A week later and Bucky still won't see him.

"I need you to get Steve away from Bucky." Clint says, pacing back and forth in front of the windows. Natasha watches from her perch on the couch, propped up on a truly obscene amount of pillows.

"And how would you propose I do that?" Natasha asks, quiet, because Bruce had passed out in the middle of giving her a foot massage and she's trying not to wake him. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm sort of incapacitated at the moment."

Clint arches a brow. "Since when have a couple of broken--,"

_ "Bruised." _Natasha glares at him. "They're bruised."

Clint sighs. "Fine, whatever. Since when have a couple of _ bruised _ribs stopped you from doing anything?"

Natasha purses her lips. "I'm not sure it's a good idea." She glances at his neck, still covered in gauze and medical tape. "This is his way of keeping you safe."

"So what, he's just gonna keep himself locked in his room forever? That's bullshit." Clint scowls. "He can't stay in there. He'll convince himself something ridiculous, like he shouldn't see me anymore, and I can't let that happen, Tasha, I can't." He stops, all out of steam, and sprawls next to the couch in a boneless heap. "It's so stupid."

"Yes," Natasha agrees, her mouth twisted into a small, private smile. "Men tend to be like that when they're in love."

Clint buries his head in the couch cushions and groans. "I hate this."

"I like it." Natasha combs her fingers through his hair. "You're good for each other."

Clint turns his head to look up at her. "You think so?"

"Yes," she says and everything smells like the type of promise not even death could hope to touch. "Which is why I'll distract Steve for you. Even if I think it's a bad idea."

Clint smiles so hard his face hurts. "Thanks, Nat. I don't deserve you."

Natasha's eyes are soft when she taps a finger to the end of his nose. "You really do."

*

_ Steve's getting me coffee. You have one hour. _

Clint shoves his phone into his pocket and sprints for the elevator. "Friday," he starts as the car jerks and begins it's ascent. "You know you're my favorite, right?"

"No need for flattery, Agent Barton." Clint doesn't think he's imagining her amused tone. "Boss gave me the go ahead to let you into Captain Rogers' apartment two days ago. He says any children you and Sergeant Barnes adopt must call him Uncle Tony."

Clint gapes at the ceiling, not sure how to respond, but thankfully he doesn't have to. The doors come apart and Friday wishes him a cheerful, "Good luck!" before he exits the elevator.

Clint gets to the end of the hallway and his stomach is churning. He stares at the door and can't bring himself to open it. 

What if Bucky really doesn't want to see him? 

Or worse--

...what if he's made the whole thing up in his head and Bucky doesn't feel the same way about him at all?

For a split second, Clint thinks about running, leaving a note for Nat and putting all this behind him. There's a decrepit farmhouse out in Waverly, Iowa with his name on the deed where he could lay low. He could fix the place up, adopt a couple dogs, get a job at the rec center, maybe.

It sounds nice, in theory. 

But Bucky wouldn't be there.

Clint twists the doorknob.

Bucky's nowhere to be found in the living room or the kitchen. Clint bypasses Steve's room completely and heads straight for the door on the right. He knocks twice.

"Go away, Stevie."

The room's a wreck, dirty clothes and dishes all over the place, and there's at least a dozen half-drunk water bottles cluttering the nightstand. The blinds are closed, the curtains shut tight, and there's a Bucky shaped lump hidden beneath the covers. 

The whole room smells overwhelmingly of wet earth and a wave of affection hits Clint so hard it threatens to overwhelm him.

He sits on the end of the bed and rests a hand where he thinks Bucky's leg is.

"I said get lost, punk."

"M'not Steve."

"Clint?" The blankets rustle and Bucky pokes his head out. The moment his eyes find Clint he's scrambling back towards the headboard and cursing like a sailor. "Shit. Fuck. Goddamn it, Clint, you can't be here."

"Yeah?" Clint asks, flicking a speck of dirt off the sheets. "You wanna go someplace else? The weather's nice today, we could go up to the roof. The fresh air would probably do you some good. Jesus, it smells like somebody died in here."

Bucky's got about a week's worth of stubble on his chin and his hair's so greasy you could season a skillet with it. He's missing his metal arm completely, the sleeve of his t-shirt hanging loose and empty from his shoulder, and his eyes are bloodshot like he's been crying all day.

He looks awful. Clint's never wanted to kiss him more in his entire life.

"You know what I mean." Bucky sniffles, then swipes at his nose. "You can't be here with me."

"Nah," Clint says, nonchalant. "I don't know anything about that."

"No?" Bucky's eyes drop to his neck. Clint fights the urge to tug his shirt up. "You can't think of a single reason bein' alone with me might be a bad idea?"

Clint flashes him a grin. Judging by Bucky's scowl, it's a shit eating one. "Nothing comes to mind."

"I bit you," Bucky snaps. "So hard I drew blood. Stevie said it took you two hours to come back up."

"It wasn't you," Clint says. "We both know that."

"Yeah." Bucky looks away, the corners of his mouth turned down. "I still did it though."

"Alright." Clint chews at the inside of his cheek. "Okay, then. I forgive you."

Bucky flinches and pushes even closer into the headboard. "You can't mean that."

Clint shrugs. "I can and I do."

"I shot at you," Bucky says and his voice wavers at the end where he struggles to get the words out. "I could have killed you."

Clint gives him a pointed look. "You think I couldn't have disarmed you? You only had one arm, Bucky, give me some credit. I let you bite me. Hell, I basically told you to. It was the only way to knock you out without hurting you."

"I--," Bucky swallows. "Clint." He opens his mouth only to close it a second later without saying a word. "Clint, I--," he tries again, but still comes up short. His eyes are shining and he looks stricken. Devastated. "Clint, you were so _ little _."

Oh.

_ Oh. _

"You remembered," Clint says, soft and all in a rush. He's been dreading this day since Bucky moved into the tower, but now that it's here he's not scared at all. Clint moves across the bed and lays a hand on Bucky's ankle. "Which time?"

Bucky chokes back a sob but it's pointless, the dam's already broken. He's breathing loud and unsteady, fat tears rolling down his face. "You were running and there was blood everywhere and you were so _ small _."

"Oh." Something warm blooms in Clint's chest. "That one's my favorite. You saved me, even though I didn't think I was worth it. I was nothing and you rescued me anyways."

"I left you!" Bucky says, glaring at Clint through red rimmed eyes. "I took you into that house, laid you on the bed, and I left. There was so much blood I could hardly hold you and I just fuckin' left!"

Clint shakes his head. "Dad would have killed Barney and me both if you hadn't been there. You gave us a chance, Bucky. That's better than anyone else ever did for us."

"I stabbed you in Peru," Bucky counters, his expression all twisted up.

Clint laughs, helpless not to. "You picked the worst spot too, I couldn't draw my bow for months. It still gets sore when the weather changes." Clint reaches out and brushes a tear away. "You took care of me afterwards though. Never seen stitches that neat outside of a hospital."

Bucky blinks at him, eyebrows crinkled together in disbelief. "I shot you in Mumbai." He says it slow, like he's waiting for it to sink in. "I tried to kill you."

"But you didn't." Clint cradles his face, thumbs at the tear tracks staining his cheeks. "You could have, but you didn't, and that's practically an assassin love letter. I hated you for it when you first moved in, couldn't stand to be in the same room as you. But then I got to know you and I realized it wasn't you that did those things to me, not really. And I know you're trying not to hurt me by staying away, but I gotta tell you, it's not working."

Bucky hiccups, tries to duck his head but Clint won't let him. "Because you not being around anymore? That hurts worse than a bite ever could. I want to wake up on the couch next to you after staying up too late watching bad movies. I want to hold your hand and take you on coffee dates and kiss you no matter who's watching." Clint's eyes are too warm but he keeps going, desperate to make him understand. "I don't care about what you did before, Bucky, I just want to be with you now."

"We can't." Bucky shakes his head, his eyelashes matted together with tears. "We shouldn't. Clint, there are better people--,"

"Sure," he says and Bucky breaks down, sobs so hard his shoulders shake. "Maybe there are better people who could love me. But I don't think they'll ever get the chance," Clint admits. "Because I've got my heart set on you."

And then Clint kisses him, even though Bucky's face is too hot and a mess of snot and tears. Clint kisses him and then he does it again, and again, and again, just because he wants to.

Bucky holds him tight and kisses right back.

*

This time when Steve bursts into the room, Bucky's the one who looks like he's been mauled by a mountain lion. Steve lets out a wolf whistle and Bucky goes just about pink as he can get.

Clint couldn't stop smiling if he tried.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where the main story ends. The next chapter is the epilogue, but it gets a rating change to E so if you're not into that stuff you can totally skip it. Thanks for reading and encouraging me, you guys really made this a fun experience for me!


	12. The Happily Ever After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me or did it get explicit in here?

_ * _

_ A Year Later _

*

"Clint, get down here!" Bucky calls, arms loaded down with grocery sacks as he shoulders his way through the door. "You're not gonna believe what I saw when I turned down the drive. Billy Hollingsworth got _ goats! _"

He dumps his bags on the counter and an apple breaks free, tumbling towards the ledge. Bucky snatches it before it can fall and takes a bite, giddy and impatient. Those goats were so goddamn_ fluffy. _Clint's gonna lose his shit when he sees them.

Bucky finishes the apple and tosses the core, licking juice from his fingers. Clint never answers, which is weird, but not out of the realm of ordinary. Maybe he's out in the barn. 

"Hey, mutt." The one eyed dog on the couch raises his head in answer, tail thumping loudly against the cushions. "Where'd your man run off to?"

Lucky gives a quiet whuff and lays his head back down.

"You're no count." Bucky says, mouth ticking up when Lucky wags his tail that much harder. Well, looks like the goats will have to wait. Bucky wipes his hands on his jeans and gets to work squaring away the groceries. 

He's got them halfway unpacked before he realizes something is wrong.

The rice cooker's switched on, water steady boiling, but the lid's missing and there's not any rice inside. Bucky frowns because _ what the hell? _Clint might be a mess but he's not scatterbrained, and he always runs a tight ship in the kitchen.

Bucky pulls the plug on the rice cooker and catches sight of raw chicken lying half chopped on the cutting board. Bucky glances around, then leans over to jab at the meat with his pinkie finger. 

It's been out of the fridge so long it's not even cold any more. "Clint?" He calls, uneasy.

Still no answer.

Bucky swallows. He shoves the milk and butter into the back of the fridge and washes his hands, trying to ignore the way his stomach is turning. He cuts off the faucet and heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

It's probably nothing. More than likely Clint's phone died, 'cause he never remembers to plug the damn thing in, and then maybe he'd gone upstairs to get his charging cable, and then for some reason he'd taken his hearing aids out, and then--

The smell hits him the moment he steps onto the second floor.

_ Leather. _

_ Gunpowder. _

** _Heat._**

Bucky's knees go weak. He trips up the last step and stumbles onto the landing, sagging against the wall to keep upright_ . _ He takes a breath, long and searching through his nose. Everything smells like honey and sex and _ Clint _and it's, it's--

It's incredible. Bucky takes one step, then another, caught in it's snare. He stands outside their bedroom door and breathes, fills his lungs with that meant-to-be scent. His head is so full up with Clint that he can't think about anything except the way he looks squirming underneath him, crying when Bucky finally gets his mouth on him--

Bucky shivers, pushing the thoughts away in favor of getting the door open. Clint's nowhere to be found but the smell is stronger here and the covers are missing from the bed, so Bucky's not worried. He knows he's close. "Clint?" 

A whimper, made so softly unenhanced ears wouldn't catch it. Bucky listens to stuttered breathing and follows the sound until he's standing outside the closet. "You in there?"

Another desperate sound. Bucky nudges the door open and the heat scent is so great he has to grab hold of the door frame to keep his feet under him. 

Clint's curled up in a pile of Bucky's laundry, eyes shut tight with the comforter from their bed tucked in close around him. He's biting down on his hand in an attempt to muffle the choked off gasps he's making and Bucky can't see his other hand, but he's got a pretty good idea of what it's doing based on the jerky movements going on under the blankets.

"Fuck," Bucky whispers and Clint's eyes slit open, fevered gaze honing in on him. Bucky stares back, spellbound, and then Clint's lunging, threading fingers into Bucky's shirt to haul him down into the heap with him.

Clint's--God, Clint's _ naked, _ all lean muscle and tanned skin, and Bucky's heart is gonna give out. _ "Fuck," _he swears again, higher brain function eluding him in the face of the truly obscene way Clint's rolling his hips.

"Bucky," Clint says, nipping at his jawline. "Bucky," he sighs again, a mantra.

"I'm here," Bucky answers. "I've got you, sunshine."

Another whimper, frustrated this time. "Please." Clint starts fumbling with the zip on Bucky's jeans. "Bucky, please."

"Hey." Bucky moves to stop him, covering Clint's hands with his own. "Let me check first, okay?"

Clint squirms, trying to work his hands free, but Bucky doesn't let him go until he stops. Clint stays still, panting as Bucky's cybernetic hand trails lower, past the swell of his ass to tease over his hole. Bucky circles it before pressing in and the noise Clint makes is pure bliss. "Yeah?" Bucky asks, sounding just as wrecked.

"Please," is all Clint says. "Please."

Bucky plants a kiss on that beautiful mouth and starts to ease another finger in, but when Clint's next noise comes out strained, he stops. "Did that hurt?" 

Clint shakes his head. He tries to roll his hips but Bucky keeps him still. "Don't stop."

Bucky lets his fingers slip free and Clint cries, honest to god sobs. "Honey," Bucky murmurs, smoothing a hand down his back. "You're not wet enough."

"Don't care." Clint's back to clawing at Bucky's fly, but his hands are so shaky he can't get the button undone. "I don't care--,"

"I do," Bucky promises, kissing away a tear as it trails down Clint's cheek. "I care. I can make it so good for you, sunshine, you've just got to let me."

Clint huffs, but finally stops fooling with Bucky's pants, his mouth twisting into a wobbly sort of smile. "Okay," he says, wrapping his arms around Bucky's neck. "Hurry."

Bucky pulls them from the tangle of blankets and carries Clint to the bed, lays him down on cool sheets. The noise Clint makes when he leaves is gut wrenching, but Bucky shushes him, grabbing the lube from the nightstand before sinking back between his legs.

He lays a hand on Clint's thigh, coaxing it wider. The light catches on a bead of slick and all at once time slows to a crawl. Bucky stares, unable to look away. The longer he looks the more he's consumed by a feral sort of hunger, and now he can't think past how fucking_ ravenous _ he is. He lurches forward, chasing the slick with his tongue, and it's incredible _ , _ the best thing he's ever had, and the only thing in his head is _ Clint, Clint, _ ** _Clint_**_. _

Clint howls_ , _ arches so hard his shoulders come off the bed. Bucky pins his hips down and keeps at it, doesn't let up no matter how hard Clint squirms because he _ can't _. Clint's got a deathgrip on Bucky's hair, oscillating between breathing way too fast and wailing hysterically. He clamps his thighs down around Bucky's ears and Bucky growls, uses the hand that's not occupied to pry Clint's legs open again.

"Bucky, I don't, I don't--," Bucky delves his tongue back inside and Clint yelps, claws his fingers into Bucky's hair. "I-I don't need that," he manages, between the gasps. "I need you. Please, Bucky, I just need you."

Bucky shudders, the primal part of him beyond pleased at the needy mess he's made of Clint. The rest of him feels like an asshole though, because Clint sounds like he's really hurting here and that's the last thing Bucky wants. "Right," he mumbles, resting his head against Clint's thigh while he fumbles with the lube. "Sorry."

"S'okay," Clint slurs. "Felt good, just-- just want you."

Bucky pushes a finger inside and it's so much easier, now that he's wet. Bucky takes his time, murmuring sweet nonsense when Clint's babbling gets too desperate. One finger turns to two, then three and Clint's begging, chanting, _ "please, please, please," _over and over again like it's the only word he knows. 

"Hush," Bucky says, pulling his fingers free and ignoring the way they tremble. "You're okay. I've got you."

He shucks his jeans and underwear in one go, crawls up the bed to cage Clint against it. Clint hooks his ankles around Bucky's back, stares up at him with those forget-me-not eyes, and he's so perfect that Bucky is gonna _ die._

He brushes his lips against the corner of Clint's mouth and drags the head of his cock over Clint's hole, easing it in, bit by bit, and he was wrong earlier, _ this _ is where he dies. _ " _ Jesus, fuck _ ," _ he groans, dropping his head to rest in the crook of Clint's neck. It's so _ hot. _ Clint garbles incoherently, jerking down and then Bucky's swearing again, grabbing at Clint's hips to stop him. "Fuck, Clint, don't move. Just-- just give me a minute here, sunshine."

They stay like that, eyes locked and sharing breath until Bucky stops feeling like he's going to have a heart attack and starts moving again. He sets an unhurried pace, fucking Clint slow and sweet, and he knows he won't last. He can't_ , _not with how good Clint feels and the way his heat scent is driving Bucky out of his mind. The tension is already mounting, the heat in his belly flaring like wildfire. 

"Clint," Bucky murmurs and Clint glances up through his lashes, delirious and flushed and so, so gorgeous. Bucky brushes his hair back, plants quick kisses across his forehead. "I love you, you know that? More than anything." Bucky snaps his hips and Clint gasps, digs his fingers into the cotton of Bucky's shirt. "I love you so much, honey."

_ "Bucky _ ," Clint whispers, a three page love letter crammed into one word. Another thrust has him coming apart, making a mess in the space between them. The tension in Bucky's stomach snaps and then he's coming too, knot swelling to tie them together, and it's perfect but still not enough, and Clint's neck is _ right there, _and he wants, oh, how he wants--

Bucky shoves his shirt into his mouth and bites down so hard his teeth creak.

He shudders through his orgasm, his metal arm the only thing keeping him from collapsing into a boneless sprawl. When his vision comes back and he stops shaking, Bucky peers down to find a very, _ very _content looking Clint staring back at him. "Hey," Bucky says, still blinking sluggishly through the aftershocks.

Clint snorts. "Hey yourself," he answers, half smiling. 

"How--." Bucky wets his lips. "How're you feelin'?"

"Nice." Clint smiles, a full one this time, dimple and all. "I could get used to this whole knotting thing."

Bucky chuckles, jostling said knot and reducing Clint to whimpers all over again. "Sorry," he whispers, even though he's not, because Clint's cute when he's needy. "Let's get you more comfortable, yeah?" 

Bucky rolls them onto their sides and gathers Clint close, letting the other man sling his leg lazily over his hip. "Much better." Clint hums, eyes slipping closed. "This beats the hell out of riding it out alone. Seriously, I almost feel human again."

"Glad to be of service," Bucky quips, trailing fingers up and down Clint's back. He's still radiating heat, but it's diminishing more and more as time ticks on. "Won't be much longer now," he explains. "Maybe five or ten minutes. Then we can move and get you cleaned up."

"No rush." Clint opens his eyes and grins, managing to look bashful even with Bucky's cock still buried inside him. "I kinda like it. It makes me feel like I'm-- I don't know, claimed or something?" He fidgets, picking at the sleeve of Bucky's shirt. "Like I'm all yours," he admits, eyes carefully averted.

Bucky rumbles, fingers tightening against Clint's hip. "You are, honey. All mine." He presses his lips against the line between Clint's eyebrows. The curve of his cheek. The slant of his jaw. "And I'm all yours."

"I know." Clint's smile wilts. "So why didn't you bite me?"

"I--," Bucky stops, wrong footed. "It all happened so fast, I never got the chance to ask."

"But we've talked about it before," Clint says and he's not looking away now. His eyes are locked on Bucky's, flicking back and forth as he searches for something. "And I've always said I'd want you to, if I was burning up. So what gives?"

Bucky swallows around nothing, clears his throat. "I just wanted to be sure that you were sure," he says eventually, aiming for nonchalance. "You can change your mind. I'd understand."

"You're a moron, Bucky Barton," Clint says, clearly exasperated as he traces his thumb over the singular golden plate on Bucky's ring finger, the one Tony had installed the day they said their vows. "One of these days I'm gonna get it through your head that I'm not changing my mind about you."

"Sap," Bucky says, ignoring how his chest goes warm and his throat gets tight. "And you can't call me a moron while I'm still inside you. It's bad manners."

"Bite me," Clint teases, eyes glinting.

Bucky leans over to kiss Clint's scar, bigger now after that night in the tower. "Later," he promises, voice full of intent, and watches in fascination as Clint breaks out in goosebumps all over.

*

Eventually his knot slips free. Clint dozes and Bucky stays awake, content to study the freckles dusted along his collarbones. When he wakes Bucky makes good on his promise of cleaning up, using a towel to wash away the remnants of their earlier actions with gentle touches.

It doesn't take long for the touching to turn less gentle and more deliberate. Bucky's got his hand around Clint's cock, squeezing lazily as he traces his teeth over Clint's neck, directly over the spot he'll be biting before long. Clint makes a helpless noise, nearly incoherent already as his heat ramps up again.

"Bucky--," Clint stops with a gasp, curling in on himself as his stomach spasms. Bucky presses his cold hand to Clint's abdomen, applying counter pressure as he rides out the cramp. "It's--it's getting bad again," Clint grits out, still sounding pained.

Bucky licks his neck and Clint shudders so hard the bed shakes. "You need it?" He asks, pleased to hear Clint breathe out a desperate sounding_ yes. _"Alright, sunshine. Turn over."

Clint scrambles to comply, rolling onto his stomach with little of his usual grace. "C'mon. On your knees for me," Bucky coaxes, keeping Clint's chest pinned to the mattress with a hand between his shoulder blades. "There you go, just like that. Gorgeous."

Clint's shivers. Bucky runs a smoothing hand down his back before letting it dip lower, pushing a finger past the rim to test the stretch. It slides in easily and when Bucky pulls free it's_ dripping _ with slick. Bucky groans, pressing two fingers back in and twisting, searching out more slick. "_Fuck, _you're wet."

"D-Don't--," Clint whimpers, fists the sheets between his fingers. "Don't tease me."

"I'm not." Bucky withdraws his fingers and leans over to show Clint, stretching them apart so he can see how coated they are. "You're making such a mess, honey."

"Huh?" Clint blinks, eyes hazy. "Oh. I don't, I'm not usually--," he stops, sticking his tongue out to lick his own slick off Bucky's fingers and--

Bucky's brain short circuits.

It shouldn't be hot. _ It shouldn't _. But Bucky can't stop staring, mesmerized by that little flash of pink. Clint cleans his fingers, tongue lapping at the length of them to chase after that last bit of sweetness. "Bucky," he sighs, shifting restlessly. "Bucky, please."

He doesn't need to be told twice. In the space of a breath Bucky's already working his cock inside, the corner of his mouth ticking up when he hears Clint's breathing catch. Clint clenches around him and Bucky rumbles low in his throat, thumbing at where they're joined.

"Easy," Bucky soothes, pulling all the way out and watching avidly as Clint clamps down around nothing. Clint whines at the loss and Bucky shushes him again. "I know, I know. Just let me look for a minute, sunshine. You're so pretty, like a dream come true."

"Please, please, _ please _," Clint babbles, shoving his hips back, begging for contact. Bucky hooks his thumb in to tug at the rim and Clint gasps, slick surging out to dribble down his thighs. "Bucky, I need, I need--," Bucky thrusts his cock back in and Clint keens, fingers scrambling to get a better hold on the sheets.

"I know what you need," Bucky whispers, voice rough as he drives into Clint harder, faster. He claws his fingers into Clint's hips, sharp and mean and exactly how Clint likes it. "You need to feel me." Bucks snaps his hips, unrelenting, drawing another strangled gasp out of Clint. "You want to be so sore that you'll feel me for days afterwards."

Bucky lets go of Clint's hip to play with his cock, squeezing once before tugging at it lightly. Clint cries, eyes screwing shut and he's _ gushing, _ so wet that every thrust makes a soft squelching sound. "You want me to ruin you," Bucky growls, squeezing again as he keeps up his relentless pace. "You want everyone who looks at you to know that you're good, that you're perfect." Bucky buries himself to the hilt, grinding against the spot deep inside that drives Clint wild. "You want them to know that you're _ mine._"

Clint comes in spectacular fashion, eyes rolling back at the exact moment his knees give out. Bucky follows him down, draping himself over Clint's back while still rutting into him, chasing his own pleasure. He tucks his head against Clint's shoulder, nosing at his neck, and the wrecked sound Clint makes has Bucky's knot swelling at record speed.

"Do it," Clint pleads, tilting his head to expose the long line of his throat. "Please, Bucky. I want it so bad."

And Bucky can't tell Clint no, couldn't if he tried, so he sinks his teeth in and the answering wave of euphoria that crashes over him is blinding. It's perfect, beautiful in its transcendence, and, oh, how he loves this man. He'd do anything to keep him safe and protected here, in the shelter of his arms. He bites down harder and another wave envelopes him, dragging him out to sea and it's too much and then, and then--

_ Everything just... _

_ ...sort of... _

_ ...floats away. _

_ * _

Clint doesn't come back all at once.

Bucky keeps vigilant, even though he knows down to his core they're safe here. They've lived on the farm for almost four months now, long enough for everything to smell like them, like garden soil and worn leather and home. 

There's one scent in particular though, the one Bucky loves most of all, that's at its strongest right now. Bucky buries his head in Clint's neck and just breathes, lets that scent wash over him until it's all he can smell.

Clint stirs, fingers twitching against the pillows. Bucky keeps his arm wrapped around him, metal hand splayed low and possessive over his stomach. "You with me?" 

"Nngh," Clint says, intelligently. He shifts back, pressing more firmly against Bucky's front. "'m here. I think my brains might've melted out of my ears though."

"No loss. It's not like you had a lot to begin with anyways." Clint huffs, too tired to tease back, but he does manage to flash him a wobbly middle finger. Bucky kisses his shoulder, then nuzzles into Clint's neck and takes a deep breath. "Jesus, you smell good."

"You like that?" Clint grins all lopsided and just like that Bucky's heart is beating funny again. "Do I smell more like you now?"

"Yes," Bucky says, because he does, but that hadn't been what he meant. "But it's your scent I can't get enough of. Fuck, Clint, the whole room smells like you."

Clint stills. "Like me?" He says, sounding uncertain. "What do you mean?"

Bucky frowns. "Just what I said. Everything smells like you. Well you and heat. And a little bit of us too, but mostly it's just you--Hey!" Clint is a flurry of motion, twisting in Bucky's arms to try and face him, which would be fine if Bucky's knot wasn't still holding them together. "Slow down, honey, we're still tied."

"You never said I had a smell." Clint stops squirming, but still cranes his neck to get a better look at Bucky. "What is it?"

"I haven't?" Bucky asks, wracking his brain. He must have told Clint what he smelt like at some point, or surely Steve had told him if Bucky hadn't.

"No," Clint says so, so quietly. "What do I smell like? Tell me."

"Like a sunbeam," Bucky says, like it's obvious. "Like summer. That's why I call you sunshine." Clint hiccups and Bucky holds him tighter. "Aw, honey, don't cry. I love the way you smell."

"I'm not crying," Clint says, but his sniffling says otherwise. "It's just-- I knew someone else who smelled like that too." 

"It's beautiful." Bucky traces his thumb back and forth across the star shaped scar on Clint's thigh. "You remember the second time I met you, out in Tallahassee?" 

Clint doesn't say a word, just nods. "That's why I didn't kill you. I'd never smelled anything like it, it was incredible. When we got back to your caravan it was _ everywhere _ and I couldn't think straight. Then we started kissing and-- God, you were so young. Clint, I'm so sorry."

"I'm not," Clint tells him, trying to catch his hand. Bucky dodges him, moving instead to worry at the silvery scar decorating the join of his right shoulder. "I liked that one. It didn't end well, but you were sweet."

"Still sorry," Bucky mumbles, fingers fretting at the scar on Clint's shoulder, the one Bucky himself put there under a Peruvian sky.

"I can feel you worrying about it." Clint manages to catch his hand this time, tangling their fingers together. "I don't care, Bucky. I'd do it all over a hundred times, as long as I got to keep you in the end."

It's hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. "I love you," Bucky whispers, squeezing his hand tighter. His knot finally slips free and Clint twists, wrapping himself around Bucky until they're as close as two people can be.

"I love you too," Clint says before kissing him, soft and sweet, and Bucky still doesn't think he deserves it, not really, but one thing's for sure; 

He's going to spend the rest of his life trying to earn it.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for sticking with me through this, y'all are angels. ♥️♥️♥️

**Author's Note:**

> You can cache me ousside at narcydoll.tumblr.com. There's not much there but I'd love to make fandom friends! ♥️


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